


25 Days of Fic-mas

by mandysimo13



Series: 25 Days of Johnlock Christmas Fluff [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 25 days of ficmas, Case Fic, Christmas, Christmas Shopping, Comforting Sherlock, Dancing, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Frottage, Happy Ending, John's POV, M/M, Minor Injuries, Nightmares, Ridiculous underwear, Tumblr Prompt, Tumblr Prompts, john just wants to find the perfect gift!, kiss fighting, seasonal themes, these two idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-04 11:32:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 36,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5332595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandysimo13/pseuds/mandysimo13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John just wants to find the perfect gift for Sherlock. It's harder than he thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shopping for Gifts

John had been aimlessly wandering around the shops for the whole day and nothing he saw seemed to be _quite_ right.

There was a lovely maroon scarf that would look lovely around Sherlock’s pale neck. But a plain old scarf wouldn’t be special enough for their first Christmas together as a couple. Simply would not do.

In a gastronomy store there was a “food chemistry” set that he thought Sherlock would appreciate but John was afraid that would encourage even more experiments performed in their kitchen. And on him. He couldn’t fathom what kind of chaos Sherlock would inflict upon him with it.

Would he find a new dressing gown insulting? Would that seem like he was trying to change his dressing habits? Sherlock’s were getting awful threadbare but what if he liked the familiarity of his dressing gowns, they way they wore and they way they smelled. John liked the way they smelled of himself and Sherlock together. Definitely not a new dressing gown, not this year anyway.

The more John shopped, searching for the perfect gift for Sherlock, the more exasperated he felt. During his search he had managed to get a gift for everyone else in his life except the one person he wanted to gift to the most, the one he _loved_ the most. An ornament for Greg that was a little dog wearing a policeman’s helmet, a gift he knew would get a chuckle out of the DI. A bottle of good whiskey for Mycroft. Normally he wouldn’t bother but Mycroft had done more than his fair share to ensure that Sherlock was here with him and not on a suicide mission as punishment for Magnussen’s death. Not to mention conveniently removing his lying, murdering wife from their lives. He found his sister Harry some flowery pampering gift set; lotion and bubble bath that smelled like some kind of flower and lemon hybrid complete with a loofah and outrageous packaging. He bought Mrs. Hudson a rather pricey new tea set to replace the one Sherlock inadvertently destroyed in a rogue experiment involving acids.

Everyone was seen to.

Except Sherlock.

He sighed heavily, looking at the packages in his hands and decided to try his luck another day. By the time he had left the mall he knew it would be a miracle if he could catch a cab so he elected to take the subway. His began his brisk walk, feeling the nighttime turn cold and wanting to get his bags home and rest his sore feet and troubled mind. On his way he passed a shop he had never seen before.

The signage stopped him in his tracks, an old fashioned wooden sign hanging from a chain announced to the public the name of the shop, an antique store: _Perfect Picks_.

Something in the name, probably the boastful “perfect”, drew him into the shop to have a peek. If nothing else, perhaps he might find something to spruce up the flat for the holidays.

The door had a bell that tinkled when he opened it up to enter. From a counter across the way the head of an older gentleman popped up. “Evening, sir. Hate to ask, but could you leave your bags up here at the counter? Company policy, I’m afraid.”

John smiled politely at the man and nodded. “Yes, of course. Not a problem.” He walked the small distance from the door to the counter and gently put his bags on the glass countertop. Inside the countertop lay a sea of jewelry that John ignored in favor of searching around the shop. The man said his thanks for John’s compliance.

Then he asked, “anything in particular you’re looking for? Maybe I can direct you to something?”

John hadn’t the foggiest idea of where to begin. He took a quick scan around the store and found it lined with shelf after shelf, packed with table after table stuffed to the gills with all manner of articles from the past. He saw a globe, a painting of a whale, some ancient looking snowshoes, and all sorts of other things. He shook his head and told him he would call out if he found anything he needed assistance with.

John meandered about the shop, poking his head inside some of the goat paths and corners to peruse the shop’s offerings. The dim lighting made everything seem much more dense and enclosed than it probably was and gave him a sort of claustrophobic feeling, like the shelves would suddenly upend their contents and bury him at any moment.

After about twenty minutes of searching and only finding a model skeleton that might have interested Sherlock if it weren’t plastic, he decided to bring his shopping trip to a close. He could hear Sherlock’s sarcastic voice, _“really John, if it’s not real bone then what’s the point?”_.  John decided that he would give up and try another time.

He found his way back to the counter and the man pulled his bags up from behind the counter. “Find anything of interest,” he asked politely.

John shook his head, “nothing today. Better luck next time, maybe,” and bent his head to check that all his belongings were in the bags as he left them. As he shifted the bags something glinting from inside the counter caught his eye. He shuffled the bags out of the way and beneath them lay the first thing all day that screamed _**Sherlock**_ to him.

Perched on a white velvet mound lay two little amber ovals set in silver. But that’s not what made them special. What was nestled in the amber was special; a set of cufflinks with two perfectly preserved honeybees in the warm colored gems. Suddenly Sherlock’s excited voice sprang into his mind as he remembered the time he went on a tangent about honeybees:

_They’re really quite extraordinary, John. They live in perfect harmony with each other, no clamouring over their place in the world, just the work. Work, work, work, to keep the queen alive and producing the future workers, making delicious honey, flowering the plants that we eat! They’re fascinating! Don’t you think so, John?_

He remembered Sherlock’s offhanded comment about retiring to keep bees. _To remain useful after the police have grown tired of my antics,_ he said full of calm logic to John.

He could see these on Sherlock’s wrists. Particularly on that grey suit he rarely wore but looked spectacular in. He could see Sherlock’s eyes light up in his own mind’s eye when he opened them, the small ‘o’ his mouth would make when he was genuinely surprised. The face he made when he found something or someone particularly interesting.

This was it. The perfect gift.

In a matter of moments John had paid for the cufflinks. He safely stowed them away in the pocket of his jeans to keep them from the prying eyes of Sherlock when he returned home. As he quickened his step towards the subway he counted the days until Christmas. He had never been more excited to see someone open his gifts before.

When he thought over the differences between last year’s Christmas, the fiasco with Magnussen and his wife and the baby that was not his, he could hardly believe the degree of difference between the two. He finally was with the man he had loved from the moment he met him and he was back in 221B where he belonged and they were able to finally spend the quiet Christmas together he wished they had had the chance to have ages ago.

The perfect gift. The perfect Christmas. The perfect man.

John felt incredibly lucky. For the first time since he was a kid he couldn’t wait for Christmas morning.


	2. Day 2 - Hot Cocoa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's had a long cold day and wants nothing more than a cup of cocoa and a cuddle with Sherlock

It had been a particularly blustery day, snow and wind and the feeling that ice had settled into your bones no matter how long you had been indoors. It was unseasonably cold and John had had just about enough of winter before it really even began. Along with the cold the surgery was busier than normal with another round of flu and John had spent the last 8 hours peeking down people’s throats, getting coughed on and touching hands that had rubbed watery eyes and snotty noses. Even with gloves on John felt like he might catch something and he was more than willing to just put the day behind him and settle in for a cozy night at home.

All day at the surgery John had daydreamed about a nice hot shower, thick warm socks and a hot drink. He couldn’t wait for the steam to invade his nostrils and strip him clean of the cloud of germs he subjected himself to. He curled his toes in his shoes at the thought of his favorite pair of woolen socks wrapped around his frozen toes. He would make a fire too, roaring to warm his old bones and his stiff shoulder. And he’d make a cup of hot cocoa, just like his mother made when he was young. Then he’d take his cup of chocolate heat and wrap a blanket around himself and curl up in front of the fire.

Maybe Sherlock would be home. Maybe he would want to curl up with him. Did Sherlock even like cocoa? Admittedly, it had been many a day since John had craved cocoa and he wasn’t sure Sherlock had ever seen him drink it. But everyone liked hot cocoa didn’t they? John mentally shrugged off the question and hurried to finish the last of his work before running out the door to head home.

Now highly anticipating his cup of cocoa, John ducked into the store before heading home to gather supplies. Despite the extra time in the cold and the added minutes to his commute home John found the errand worthwhile. If he was going to make cocoa then he would do it right. Twenty minutes later than usual John dragged his cold, tired body through the front door and was greeted by Sherlock.

“John! You’re late!”

The detective barreled into him, plastering his body to John’s and nearly making him drop the bags in his hands. His arms wrapped around him and he dropped his petulant chin atop John’s head. “I’m cooooold,” he whined. “And you’re late.”

John grinned and rolled his eyes. “You’re only going to get colder if you keep hugging my coat.” He gently pried Sherlock off him and handed him the bags so he could take off his coat. Once he hung it up he took the bags back and took them to the kitchen and set them down. Then, with hands free and divested of his cold coat he collected Sherlock in his arms and kissed him lightly. “Evening, love.”

Sherlock just huffed and nuzzled into John’s neck. “Cold,” he said softly into John’s skin.

“I know, love. Care to warm up with me?” Sherlock picked his head up from John’s neck and quirked an eyebrow at him. “I mean a shower, Sherlock.” He steered him towards the bathroom. “Let’s get warm and then I’ll make us a fire and some cocoa and we can spend the evening all nice and cozy. How’s that sound?”

Sherlock gestured dismissively with his hand. “A wet, naked John Watson followed by some hot cocoa and a cuddle? Suppose it’s not the worst way to spend an evening.”

“Git,” John said affectionately.

Together they undressed, hissing at the cold tile as they toed off their socks. John mentally reminded himself to get another mat for the floor to protect their feet from the winter chill. The water warmed and they slipped into the stream, jostling for the spray. Normally showering together would lead to one of both of them panting with desire as they touched each other until the water ran cold. But this night they both just wanted to be near each other and soaking up the heat.

Skin warmed and pinked by the heat of the water, they stepped out and quickly dressed in their room. Soft, fleecy pajamas for them both followed by thick wool socks and their heavier dressing gowns. John finished dressing and made his way straight out to the living room to light their fire. In a matter of minutes the fire was going and beginning to warm the air immediately in front of the hearth.

Satisfied that the fire would see to itself, John started the cocoa and hoped that once they settled in with their mugs and a blanket that they would not move for a very long while. In the pot went whole milk followed by some vanilla and cocoa powder. He whisked until everything was combined and smooth. He continued his gentle whisking while the milk slowly warmed until it was perfect. Lastly, he took down two mugs and before he poured milk in them he unwrapped two peppermints and dropped them into the mugs. The melting candy would leave a delightful mint taste and a sugary bit right at the end that John loved.

“You want marshmallows on yours, Sherlock?”

John felt the detective come up behind him and wrap his arms around his middle. He dropped his head to John’s shoulder. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

That was as close to a “please” as John would ever get so John humored him. He topped both their mugs generously with mini marshmallows and then Sherlock let him go so he could lift their mugs and hand Sherlock his. He pecked Sherlock lightly on the lips and took a step into the living room and stopped in his tracks.

Spread out before the fire was the pillows and duvet from their bed and all the blankets and pillows for when they had guests. Even the little union jack pillow that lived on their couch migrated into the nest of fluff.

Sighing with happiness he reached back to tug on Sherlock’s hand and lead him to the pile of covers and pillows. They sank down into the pillows and blankets, careful not to spill while they jostled for a comfortable position. Sherlock ended up piling a few pillows at the foot of his chair and leaned heavily against it with his feet stretched towards the fire and John took advantage of his open position to curl up at his side.

For several minutes all the did was sip their cocoa and stare into the fire, glad to finally be warm. After a long while, John tilted his head up to place a small kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, feeling him smile beneath his lips. “Happy, love? Finally warm?”

Sherlock turned a soft look to John, smiling. “With you? Always.”

Sherlock kissed him and John tasted nothing but chocolate, warmth and happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's day 2! Hope you all enjoyed it and are ready for a cup of cocoa of your own! Comments and kudos are always appreciated! ^_^


	3. Day 3 - Winter Wonder Land

John couldn’t say he was surprised by the sink full of dishes. When he had gotten up that morning his lover was gone, not unusual. So he blinked himself awake, threw on his dressing gown and went to put the kettle on for his morning tea. Also not unusual to his morning routine. He yawned, stretching his stiff shoulder out and covering his mouth with his other hand as he padded to the kitchen where he found yet another usual sight.

A sink full of dishes.

Somehow, between the evening prior and nine in the morning Sherlock had managed to silently dirty an entire sink’s worth of dishes with not a stain on any of their surfaces nor a scrap of food to show for it. The absence of questionable food and stains had John puzzled but he refused to think about it before he had downed at least one cup of tea.

He flipped the kettle on and went to take his shower. By the time he had done his quick, military length shower and dressed the kettle was done and water was perfect for tea. He fixed himself a cup and set bread to toasting. After his small breakfast he decided to attack the mound of mysterious dishes that had taken up residence in their sink.

Not exactly what he wanted to do on his day off but Sherlock had a way of derailing his life that way. Mostly for the better but, more often than he cared to admit, sometimes he left John to pick up the mess. Which was fine by him as long as the mess wasn’t Sherlock himself.

Before his mind could drag him back to the dark depths of the year before, his wife and the Magnussen and the hospital and the blood and everything else, John put the radio on to clear his mind. He set the channel to the Christmas station and let the jolly, seasonal music fill the flat. He hummed along with _A White Christmas_ while he warmed the water and rolled up his sleeves. The song ended and _Walking in a Winter Wonderland_ started up.

Along with Dean Martin, John sang along.

 

 

 _“Sleigh bells ring, are you listening,”_ his voice carried.

 

Not that John was a fantastic singer but he could carry an odd tune quite well, thankyouverymuch. He dipped his hands in the water to grab a soapy sponge and start washing.

 

 

_“In the lane, snow is glistening,_

_A beautiful sight, oh we're happy tonight_

_Walking in a winter wonderland”_

 

Before he knew it he was shimmying his hips and tapping his toes as he sang, big grin on his face as he sang.

 

_“He sings a love song as we go along Walking in a winter wonderland”_

 

 

“Really John, if you sing about it the snow will come.”

Sherlock had come back from wherever he had been off to that morning and startled John. He dropped the pot in his hands, the resulting splash of water wetting his jumper. “Jesus, Sherlock. I should put a bloody bell round your neck.”

Sherlock grinned at him and took his soapy hands in his own dry ones. He sang along with the radio as he lead John into a reluctant dance.

 

_“Later on, we’ll conspire_

_As we dream by the fire”_

 

John laughed and tried to free his hands from Sherlock’s grasp. “You nutter, I’m all wet.”

Unperturbed by John’s giggling reluctance, Sherlock held him tightly and did a turn with him still singing.

 

_“To face unafraid_

_The plans that we made_

_Walking in a winter wonderland”_

 

Shaking his head, realizing that resistance was futile he joined Sherlock singing the rest of the song while they danced. When the song ended Sherlock leaned in to kiss John but John pulled his head back to eye him with a wry smile. “You know that wooing me with a dance won’t get you out of explaining the dishes, right?” Sherlock opened his mouth to retort but John cut him off. “Or helping to dry them.”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side and he said, “did you hear that, John? I think it’s Mrs. Hudson calling. Obviously, I have to see what she wants.” He fled the kitchen attempting to flee his fair share of chores.

But John was hot on his heels, “hey, you lazy git, what were you doing with the dishes this morning!”

He never did get an answer to the “mystery of the filthy dishes”. As Sherlock had hoped, bringing Mrs. Hudson into the picture brought with it a fresh plate of scones, successfully diverting John’s attention.


	4. Day 4 - Christmas Cards

John was engrossed in his morning paper when Sherlock strode in from Saint Bart’s. He’d been there all night fiddling with a body that Molly had given him free reign with. Rather than watch him tinker and abuse a dead body, John had gone home to get some much needed sleep. But now that he was home John wanted to take full advantage of Sherlock’s presence.

“Did you enjoy your evening with the body,” John said, folding his paper.

“Immensely,” Sherlock replied with a smile. He waved a bundle of envelopes in John’s direction and said, “mail’s come.”

John quirked an eyebrow. “And you’ve brought it in?” He stood and took the bundle from Sherlock and kissed him hello. “Christmas miracle?”

“Not yet Christmas, John.” He shrugged off his great coat and hung it on its customary hook. “And Mrs. Hudson had collected it with the intention of bringing it up. I just happened to come in just as she was coming up.”

John nodded and flipped through the envelopes. “Should have let her come up. She might have brought more scones with her.” He pointed to the kitchen, “kettle’s still warm.”

“Lovely,” Sherlock said, striding into the kitchen to pour himself some tea.

John mentally ticked off each envelope and he scanned them. _Bills, bills, bills, advertisement, bill...red envelope with snowmen stickers?_

He checked the return label and saw that Molly Hooper had sent it to them. “Molly’s sent us a Christmas card,” he told Sherlock.

“Whatever for?”

“Because it’s that time of year, Sherlock. She’s just trying to be friendly.” He tore into the red envelope and slid the card out. On the cover was a big, grumpy, grey cat wearing a Santa’s hat. John chuckled and opened the card to read the scrawl inside.

 

_Dear John and Sherlock,_

_Just wanted to send you a card to spread some holiday cheer._

_I_ _t’s been a lovely year and I truly hope that you boys enjoy your_

_first holiday together. Make it as lovely and special as you are._

_-With love,_

_Molly and Tom_

 

John’s chest swelled with fondness for the woman. He walked into the kitchen to show Sherlock the card. “Look, she’s signed for Tom too.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took the card from John’s fingers to examine it. “Isn’t that what couples do? Forge each other’s names on useless stationary and paperwork?”

“I wouldn’t know,” John said sarcastically. “You just forge my name on legally binding paperwork when your antics force me into an ASBO.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He turned an absolutely serious face on him and added. “That was Mycroft.”


	5. Day 5 - Ghosts of Christmas Past

John hadn’t intended to fall asleep. It was another long day at the surgery and Sherlock ushered his grumpy arse to the couch and told him to sit. In a rare mood of helpfulness, he said he would take care of dinner and tea and anything else John needed. Which meant that dinner would be out of a takeaway carton, again, but that the tea would arrive to his hands warm and just the way John liked it.

“Thanks love, I’m just going to rest my head a bit, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded. “Course, John. Thai?”

Closing his eyes as he tipped to lay on their couch he replied, “perfect.”

He laid there, eyes closed and head aching trying to shove the events of the day out of his head. The day started out normal and not altogether unpleasant until a young man came in for a visit and bringing with him ghosts from the past.

When John walked in the exam room and looked up from the chart he thought he had seen a literal ghost. The young man in question, Garrett Davidson, looked the very picture of a fellow soldier John had known in the army. Mister Davidson even had the crew cut and military stance when he stood to shake John’s hand, reminding him of the young Private from his past.

He was younger than John, just barely into adulthood at the time. When he was a fresh, hopeful youth and life hadn’t truly touched him yet. When he came to join John’s battalion John had taken him under his wing and eventually convinced him to join the medical program once he had witnessed his skills in first aid. He watched the young man fascinated by how neat his stitches were while under pressure and was convinced he’d make an excellent doctor. For almost a year the young Private worked tirelessly at his lessons and John could see greatness in him. John swelled with pride every time he watched him grasp and excel at a new concept.

And then, one ordinary day in the life of the military, the young Private lost his life.

Routine patrols were usually just that: routine.

But this one patrol saw a nest of insurgents coming at them from all directions as they investigated an abandoned building. Their intel was bad. Very bad. They had been pinned for almost an hour when backup finally arrived and they all thought they would all live to see another day. Then, as they were retreating towards their rescue vehicles one of them got a lucky shot. His young protégé went down with a gaping hole in his back and blood springing up from his mouth.

John picked him up and carried his broken body back to their humvee and tried to staunch the blood flow while the poor boy choked on his own fluid. John kept muttering _no, no, stay with me Private. You’re going to live, I got you…_

But his prayers went unanswered, his skills were not enough. Not in a bumpy humvee with no supplies and a hundred miles from anywhere. The young man died, in his arms, just two weeks before Christmas and a week before he was due to go home for a visit to his family. John took the boy’s death hard, speaking in terse responses and throwing himself into his work for the next couple weeks. He even went so far as to take someone’s shift on patrol Christmas eve just to keep his mind out of the darkness for awhile.

Everyone in the military has lost someone. Several someones. Friends, lovers, brothers and sisters, parents. They always blur together in the end, the faces of the dead. When you lose so many eventually the nightmares blend the loss and the monsters wear many faces. Even though this boy had not featured in his dreams in many a day, John knew when he saw Mister Davidson's face that he would see the young Private in his sleep that night.

In fact, he was seeing him as he lay on the couch when he fell into an unintended sleep. He stood there in front of John trying to talk, desperately trying to say something but all that came out was a fountain of dark, oozing blood.

John woke with a gasp as Sherlock shook him awake. “John, John, wake up!” Sherlock was kneeling at John’s side trying to jolt him awake, voice growing beyond concerned. It was his voice that eventually pulled John back to the present. John was shivering in cold sweat and he could barely force his eyes open to focus on Sherlock’s panicked face. His breathing was ragged and he could feel tears wetting his cheeks. Rather than trying to speak and explain himself he tugged Sherlock closer and burying his face in his lover’s neck.

Once he would have been beyond embarrassed to seek comfort from another in this way. In the past he had sought it at the bottom of a bottle, before the prospect of the alcoholism that ran rampant in his family scared him straight. He had later sought it in risky hookups at the cantinas and locker rooms or in extra patrols on dangerous routes. When he became a civilian again he sought it in the willing arms of one night stands and practicing his aim at the range. Even with Mary, a woman he had honestly loved for a time, he had tried to find his own comfort without bringing her into his emotional mess. No one else would understand. Well, Mary might have if she had been truthful about her past with him. But while he knew her he never thought to lay down his guard and be vulnerable with her. Because how could she understand?

But Sherlock did.

He shared with John some of his time away during those two years. Explained where his scars and nightmares came from. Sherlock, too, had seen horrors of battle and was haunted. He didn’t have to explain himself and Sherlock never asked. Once he had calmed down he would tell Sherlock, knowing he would be curious at this out of character outburst.

But just then all John needed was to be close to Sherlock, to feel him pressed close and have his scent surround him, to feel those long, beautiful fingers card through his hair. Most of all he needed to hear Sherlock speak to him, hear his calming voice.

Without needing to be told, Sherlock spoke. “Shh, it’s alright John. You’re home with me. No ghosts here to harm you.” John shivered in his arms and wondering silently how he could have even a small idea of what was troubling him. He always knew. He listened to Sherlock’s calming words until the bell downstairs rung.

Sherlock, still rubbing circles into his back and kissing his head paused his ministrations to say, “that’ll be the thai. You’ll be okay for a minute?” John nodded wordlessly and Sherlock gently pressed him to the couch and rose elegantly to retrieve their dinner from the delivery man. He was gone two minutes and then the savory smell of thai filled the flat.

But he couldn’t force himself to move just yet. Sherlock sensed this and returned to John’s side empty handed. He shifted John up carefully to slot himself between John and the couch, holding him and waiting for John to recover.

John was about to tell him that he should eat, that his detective was far too thin as it is to continue skipping meals. But Sherlock preempted him and said, “it’s in the microwave. It will keep for a bit.” He kissed John’s temple and added, “we’ll eat when you’re ready.” John could feel him smile and he said, “I even promise to eat a full plate tonight.”

John barked out a quick laugh, despite himself. He raised one of Sherlock hands to his lips and kissed it before entwining their fingers together. He sighed deeply, feeling himself to begin to relax and he settled into the man behind him. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Sherlock scoffed above him and nuzzled the back of John’s head. He knew he didn’t need to thank him and Sherlock didn’t expect any thanks. But John said it anyway and Sherlock accepted it silently. In a few minutes John would unfold himself from his safe harbor that was Sherlock and the couch. In a few minutes he would go wash his face and fix each of them a plate of food. They would eat together and John would coax the detective to bed and there would be no more dreams that night.

But for now he would lay there in Sherlock’s arms and let him save him from the darkness and the ghosts.


	6. Day 6 - Naughty or Nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a few days late, and that I'm behind on the others but it's been a hectic few days. Hope you all enjoy! Remember to kudos and comment! <3

“Yoohoo, boys,” Mrs. Hudson called when as she walked through the door into 221B. “Package for you, John.”

John flipped down the paper in his hands to eye their landlady and give her a smile. “Thank you Mrs. Hudson, appreciate you bringing it up.” He rose to collect it from her, setting his paper aside on the small table beside his chair.

“Was nothing,” she said and a dismissive wave. She patted her hip and told John, “you know, that new round of new herbal soothers that Sherlock brought me the other day has really helped my poor hip. Those stairs were like nothing today.”

John quirked an eyebrow at Mrs. Hudson and turned an inquisitive eye on Sherlock, who at the moment was ignoring both of them and totally engrossed in the mold slides under his microscope. John didn’t like him purchasing cigarettes much less “herbal soothers” for Mrs. Hudson. John knew the pull of temptation. God, did he know. Every time Sherlock got handsy at a crime scene or purposely flirted with John on a stakeout, getting his blood all hot because he was bored. Yes, John knew temptation. He also knew Sherlock was his own worst enemy when it came to temptation. It nearly killed him that night John killed the cabbie because of the temptation to “play the game”.

Yes, Sherlock and him would have a little talk when Mrs. Hudson left.

Shaking the image of a simpering Sherlock and thoughts of him purchasing illegal supplements from a putrid alley, John thanked Mrs. Hudson once more and saw her out. He watched her walk and she did seem to be walking a little more confidently, less pain than usual. John sighed, package still in hand, and strode to the kitchen.

“Don’t,” Sherlock said without looking up.

John’s head tilted to the side and he could feel the irritation with Sherlock’s smart mouth, know it all tone. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t start about the products I procured for our landlady. I was in no danger of _slipping_ ,” he said the word with particular disgusted sarcasm, “and as you can see I was able to get her better product than she was using. She’s feeling better.”

John caught he own tongue between his teeth, calming himself against his irritation. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have gone with you.”

Sherlock sighed and even though his eyes were still focused down the lens of the microscope John knew he was rolling his eyes. “Because you, with your air of ‘law abiding citizen’ would have scared off Mrs. Hudson’s Christmas present and I would have had an extraordinarily difficult finding that particular dealer again once he’d vanished.” He lifted his head once from the microscope to jot down a couple notes in his scrawling script in his notebook. Finally he lifted his head fully to look at John with his self satisfied smirk daring John to call him out on his actions. “You haven’t opened your package yet,” he reminded John.

John had unknowingly clenched the package in his hands while he confronted Sherlock. He forced his hand to relax and look at the return address. He blinked in surprise. _Harry Watson._ His sister never sends him anything and the sight of her name printed rather neatly across the brown wrapping of the padded envelope in his hands confused him. “It’s from my sister,” he said rather dumbly.

Sherlock stood and rounded the table to inspect the package. “Well, that is interesting.” He prodded the package with his fingertips and smelled it. Finding the package seemingly innocuous he waggled it in front of his face and asked, “would you like me to open it?”

John nodded and Sherlock tore the package open. Inside was a card with a generic snow scene that had _Happy Holidays_ printed with a flourish across the cover, slightly crumpled due to John’s vice-like grip on it. And a pair of red silk boxers.

“What on earth,” John asked the inanimate object. He plucked the silk from Sherlock’s fingers and held it up and then John started to laugh. On the back, on each side where the fabric would be pulled across each cheek of an arse were the words _Naughty_ and _Nice_. John’s laughter was now uncontrollable and his cheeks hurt with smiling so much. “Oh my god, Harry!” He wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes and he asked Sherlock, “what’s the card say?”

 

Not entirely amused by the naughty underwear, Sherlock opened the card and cleared his throat to speak.

“Dear Johnny, I saw these in a gag shop and I couldn’t help purchasing them for my ‘straightlaced’ brother.” Sherlock paused to snicker and mutter a soft “straightlaced” sarcastically under his breath. “Hopefully these come in handy when you find your own ‘Santa’s little helper’ this season. Merry Christmas, call your lush of a sister sometime. Harry.”

Sherlock closed the card and gave John a pointed look. “You haven’t told your family of our relationship.”

John opened his mouth to defend his actions but Sherlock cut him off. “Why, John Watson, would you not tell your lesbian sister that you were in a relationship with a man? It’s not like she would judge you.”

John exhaled heavily through his nose, getting angry with Sherlock all over again. It’s not like he hadn’t wanted to share with his sister the best thing that had ever happened to him. But how could he include her in his happiness when every time he tried she pulled him into more drama and sibling bickering that eventually turned into a full out argument about their parents’ and how they handled them differently during their childhood and about her drinking and his “leaving her alone to go off to shoot at terrorists” in the army. He didn’t want to get pulled into more nastiness. Yes, he had bought her a gift but he had also shipped it to her so as to safe himself from the likely possibility of an unpleasant visit. He was too old to let his family dictate his emotions and, frankly, his sister would have to prove that she had made some major improvements in her life before he included her again in any real capacity. He felt he was justified in keeping her in the dark and fully planned on telling Sherlock as such.

But what he said instead was, “my family is a drunk sister and not much else. Why do I want to get mixed up with that again?” He stuck his chin out and locked his jaw, daring Sherlock to pick a fight. He was now sporting for one and he’d give Sherlock a run for his money.

Sherlock’s eyes roamed over him and finally he seemed to make his own deductions and then he smiled at him. “I suppose I could forgive you for not telling her if you modeled those for me.” He pointed at the silk boxers still clutched in John’s hands and his smile turned toothy and mischievous.

John huffed a laugh in disbelief and all at once he wasn’t angry anymore. “Are you serious?”

“I’m easy to please John,” Sherlock purred, stepping closer so they were chest to chest.

“Yeah right, you prat.” John held up the boxers and said, “what would I get for modeling these ridiculous pants for you?”

“A spot on my naughty list,” Sherlock said with a dark mirth in his voice. His eyes were half-lidded and his empty hand pressed itself lightly into John’s chest in a way that invited no argument.

Making a show of sighing and relenting to Sherlock’s request John walked off towards the bedroom. Outside, aside from a stiffening in his jeans, he didn’t let on the effect being on Sherlock’s “naughty list” had on him. Inside though, he was churning with growing need. He could feel Sherlock behind him as they entered their bedroom and he heard the click of the door as he closed it behind him.

“You know, it’s not a real fashion show if you watch the model dress,” John quipped.

“Yes but this show is just for me. And I like to watch my ‘model’ _un_ dress.” Sherlock licked his bottom lip suggestively and it sent a shiver down John’s spine. He sat on the bed and stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles, before motioning with his hand for John to get on with it.

John turned his back to undo his fly and drop his jeans. He knew Sherlock knew he was incredibly turned on but that didn’t stop him from trying to retain some of his dignity. Besides, he also knew what the sight of John bending over, arse would do to Sherlock. _Two can play at this game,_ he thought wryly. Once he had removed his jeans and pants he bent over deeply, putting his arse on display, as he stepped into the silky material of the boxers.

Slowly, he inched the silk up his calves, over his knees, sliding up along his thighs and then tugged gently over his cheeks until the waistband hugged John’s hips. He spread his arms for Sherlock, showing off the white lettering of _Naughty_ and _Nice_. “Well, how do they look?”

Sherlock was silent behind him so John turned his head over his shoulder to see his mouth parted slightly and his cheeks pinked. His flustered appearance only worsened when John turned fully to show the front of the pants. Sherlock sucked in a small breath to see the front of the pants tented with John’s erection.

“Like what you see,” John teased.

“You most certainly,” Sherlock said calmly and precisely, “are on the naughty list John Watson.”

John, taking advantage of Sherlock’s flustered and aroused state crawled up the bed, straddling a fully clothed Sherlock and whispered, hovering about Sherlock’s mouth, “you’re one to talk, Sherlock Holmes. I’ll bet you’re first on the list.”

“Impossible,” Sherlock breathed out, trying hard to focus on anything but his own arousal. “Logically a list of names would start alphabetically and my na-”

John stopped the unnecessary commentary with a finger against Sherlock’s lips. “Shut it, you berk.”

And then John crashed their lips together.

Their kisses were frantic, heated and needy. Both of them still irrationally irritated with each other’s perceived wrongdoings. They took out their frustrations on each other, pulling at hair, biting at necks and dragging nail along skin. John quickly unbuttoned Sherlock’s blue button down to attack the detective’s chest with kisses and nips, pulling moans from him.

Sherlock raked nails down John’s back making him hiss with pleasurable pain. John retaliated by taking Sherlock’s nipple between his teeth and torturing it mercilessly. Their hips bucked and rutted seeking friction that neither of them were unwilling to give just yet, not wanting either to have the satisfaction of making the other beg. Sherlock dug his fingers into John’s silk clad hips and forced him to still for a few precious seconds so he could brush their clothed erections together, making them groan in unison.

“John,’ Sherlock growled. It wasn’t pleading or demanding, but a warning that soon one of them would have to make a move to push them toward their descent fully into pleasure.

John didn’t heed his warning and tugged Sherlock’s other nipple with his teeth and laving it with his tongue. The groan that was wrenched from Sherlock went straight to John’s prick and made him moan in sympathy. His moment of distraction was enough for Sherlock to forcefully roll them over so John was trapped between him and the mattress. Sherlock also took advantage of John’s moment of surprise to thrust his hips against John’s, finally getting the friction he needed.

“ _Ah!_ Sherlock,” John cried out. The feel of Sherlock pressing into him, rutting against him, was too good and John stopped trying to fight it. He wanted this, needed this. He ran his hands under the shoulders of the shirt Sherlock still wore, pulling it down before Sherlock ripped it off himself. Sherlock then took John’s hands and pinned them above his head into the pillows and mouthing at his exposed nipples.

While Sherlock’s mouth worked over John’s nipple his hips ground out a rhythm that was driving the both of them further and further towards the finish line. John arched his back, pushing his chest into Sherlock’s face and he panted, “we, we’re gonna come in our pants like a- _ah_ , couple of teenagers,” John warned.

But Sherlock paid him no heed. He just continued his maddening thrusting and moved his mouth up higher on John’s chest. John tried to struggle against Sherlock’s hold on him but with the angle of his arms, his brain fuzzy with lust, and Sherlock’s full body weight on him John couldn’t throw him off without doing injury to his bad shoulder. And Sherlock was rarely so dominant in bed that John was loathe to stop him.

He felt himself inching closer and closer to orgasm, shivering with tightening need. He could feel Sherlock’s tongue drag up his neck and then it was inside his ear, making him squirm. He bit his lip against the keening whine that would have slipped otherwise. Then Sherlock’s voice replaced his tongue in John’s ear. “I’m going to make you come in these ridiculous pants.” He sucked John’s earlobe into his mouth and added, “secure your place on the naughty list.”

“Fuck,” John panted.

A string of “fucks”, “Sherlocks” and “ohs” fell from John’s mouth until Sherlock tightened his hands around John’s wrist and ground down with more gusto than before. Sherlock was close too, John would feel it in the quickening pace of his hips and the quicker panting in his breath. Sherlock whispered once more in John’s ear, “come for me, John.”

John couldn’t help but comply, his body stiffening and moans spilling from him as his come spread along the inside of his boxers. Sherlock followed suit within seconds, coming inside his own pants and trousers.

After a moment Sherlock released John’s wrists and John let his arms fall to Sherlock’s back. They both lay there, shivering in the afterglow and clutching at each other. They relaxed slowly, melting into each other and feeling the last remnants of their previous irritation slip away as they smoothed their fingertips along each other’s exposed skin.

Eventually Sherlock slipped off John to lay at his side and he rested his head against John’s good shoulder. John tipped his chin up to give Sherlock a tender kiss, full of sweetness and none of the anger of their previous kisses. When he carded his fingers through Sherlock’s damp curls the detective sighed contentedly.

Finally John broke the silence. “I’ll tell my sister about us.”

Sherlock blinked at him. He bit his lip and averted his gaze from John’s eyes to a suddenly interested freckle on John’s chest. “I’ll bring you next time I go to get Mrs. Hudson her “herbal soothers”.”

Neither had come out and said they were sorry. But their declarations were enough.

Relaxed, sleepy, and sticky John started giggling to himself. Sherlock tipped his head up to shoot him a questioning look. “You know,” John said between giggles. “We should get you a pair of these.” He bent to kiss Sherlock once more and said, “you naughty thing,” against Sherlock’s lips.

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock replied while they kissed. “No way in hell.”


	7. Day 7 - The Nutcracker

Sherlock came up behind John while he prepared his morning cuppa. He wrapped his arms around John’s middle and dropped his chin on the doctor’s shoulder. “Would you care to go to a show tonight?”

John hummed in contemplation. “Depends, what show?”

“The Nutcracker. Mycroft had bought my parents tickets to go but since they are now unable to come he thought we might enjoy them.”

John turned in Sherlock’s grasp and handed him his own mug of tea. “What’s the matter with your parents?”

“Father has a touch of a cold and mummy didn’t want to leave him. Be right as rain in a few days but that means that Mycroft, conveniently, doesn’t have to accompany them to another show at the theater.”

John took a sip from his mug. “Sorry to hear that. But if Mycroft is offering free tickets to a sold out ballet then how can I refuse?”

“Splendid,” Sherlock said, leaning in to kiss his cheek. The show is at seven and I refuse to be late.”

 

~*~

 

Sherlock needn’t have worried about John being late for the ballet. He arrived home from the surgery in plenty of time to shower and change into his suit. He fixed his tie in the mirror, admiring the colors that Sherlock had chosen. It was Sherlock’s first gift to him as a couple. He remembered fondly the day Sherlock whisked him off to his tailor to have him fitted. _Now that we are an item, John, I will not suffer for your cheap and, frankly, horrendous suits._ He tried to seem blasé about it but John saw in the mirror Sherlock’s small smile when he peeked up from his phone when he thought John wasn’t paying attention.

Together they had chosen a dark grey suit and a deep plum shirt and a tie to match. Sherlock even convinced him to accept a pocket square. _It’s traditional, John_. He looked so serious that John couldn’t say no and accepted it along with everything else.

He turned to leave their bedroom and found Sherlock standing in the doorway, smiling fondly. He wore one of his impeccable, black bespoke suits and the purple shirt John loved so much.“Still suits you.”

John smiled and ducked his head, still after all this time unused to Sherlock’s open affection. He didn’t ever want to be. “You suit me,” he said, placing a hand against the small of Sherlock’s back to lead them out. “Come on or we’ll be late.”

They found their seats in plenty of time and settled in with their playbills. They held hands and spoke quietly about their day while the rest of the patrons filed in for the show. Then the lights dimmed and it began.

The performance was beautiful. The dancing exquisite, the sets and costumes stunning and the music absolutely divine. John noticed more than once that while the music played Sherlock had closed his eyes and his hands made small movements in his lap, fingers working a phantom violin in his lap. To see him to entranced with the music was a sight in and of itself and John felt his heart swell anew with love.

When it was all over Sherlock had tears standing in his eyes. John wiped them away and commented, “that was a lovely show.” Sherlock didn’t reply, just nodded his head and clasped John’s hand in his own.

When they finally left they were some of the last to leave. John held his hand as they walked out into the cool December air to catch a cab home. Once they hailed one they slid in and John gave their address and then the men sat in silence. Sherlock was still overcome with emotion of the ballet and John had no wish to disturb his inner musings. Instead he continued to hold his lover’s hand and stroke his knuckles with his thumb. When they arrived to Baker Street John paid the fare and they went inside and readied themselves for bed.

It was only after they had slipped under the covers and settled in for sleep that Sherlock spoke. “Thank you for coming with me.”

John kissed his forehead. “Of course, love. I very much enjoyed it.”

“It was my favorite thing as a boy,” Sherlock said quietly, looking at John. “Going to see the ballet. I even danced for a few years.” He stoked John’s arm and asked, “did I ever tell you that?”

John shook his head against the pillow. “You haven’t. I’m sure you were a wonderful dancer.”

Sherlock smiled weakly. “I loved it so much, the rush of the dance, the thrill of the music coursing through my veins as my feet moved me.” He chuckled mirthlessly, “even the bleeding and painful feet. I loved all of it.”

John didn't want to ask and yet he wants to know, “why did you stop?”

“When I was fourteen some boys at school found out I danced. They tortured me mercilessly, called me a poof and sprinkled glitter on me in the halls. And then one day I found my slippers cut up in my locker.” His eyes turned cold and John pulled him tighter. “That day I did the most fervent snooping I had ever done in my young life and found all the dirt I could possibly find on them. One by one I got them expelled. One was selling liquor and marijuana out of their car to kids on the campus, another was plagiarizing homework for money. The most rewarding was finding out one of them had sexually harassed another student and was arrested. They all got their comeuppance.” He frowned. “But I never danced again.”

John’s heart was in his throat. He was so angry with teenage boys from the past, boys he had never met, for torturing Sherlock and for leading him to give up something he loved. He hated them for damaging him just that little bit more and making him lock up the shine that made Sherlock so unique. He found that Sherlock’s cheeks were wet at the memory when he drew his fingertips along them. John kissed the saltiness away tried to repair some of the long standing damage.

“I still had the music though,” Sherlock said after long minutes of silence. “I let them take the dance from me but I still had the music.”

Holding the detective impossibly close John whispered to him, “I’m glad they didn’t take it all from you. You’re too talented.” Sherlock choked out a laugh and John continued, “no, listen it’s true. You know it too, you big idiot.” He kissed Sherlock’s nose and said, “if I was around then I’d have punched them all in their big, stupid noses.”

Sherlock let loose a genuine laugh, burying his head in John’s neck. “You would not have!”

“I most certainly would have and they would have expelled me.” He tipped Sherlock’s head up with fingers. “And it would have been worth it, too. Who wouldn’t want to see you in a leotard?”

That sent them both into a fit of laughter and Sherlock smacked his chest. When he finally settled down he muttered “idiot” into his shoulder. Before finally drifting off he whispered, “I love you, John.”

“I love you too,” John whispered back before closing his eyes for the night.


	8. Day 8 - Baking

The morning was quiet for once and John and Sherlock spent the majority of it engrossed in their own laptops in their own chairs. For once John didn’t have to snatch his laptop back from his nosy boyfriend nor did he have to fight for a spot of the couch. He was perfectly content to update his blog and check his email without Sherlock peering over his shoulder and correcting his spelling before he had even made a mistake.

The silence in the flat was comfortable and complete. Which is why John was startled when Sherlock broke it. “I think I want to bake today.”

John jumped at the intrusion on the quiet. He resettled his laptop back on his lap from where it had nearly fallen. “What’s brought this on?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I want to play with chemistry today. Since I figured you’d be opposed to smelling my acids and object my using the bunsen burner, that baking would be an acceptable alternative.”

John grinned. “Generally the flat smelling like biscuits and pies is preferable than the chemical clouds you create.”

Sherlock nodded once and said. “Fine. Come with me to the shops. We need supplies.”

Inevitably, even though this was Sherlock’s experiment, John followed where he led and held the basket while he dropped all sorts of things into it. Some of it was straightforward baking supplies; flour, sugar, eggs, molasses, vanilla. But some of it was unusual. “What are you baking with sugar, molasses and cheddar cheese,” John asked, now a touch frightened of the outcome of Sherlock’s baking.

He just shrugged and said, “never know what might be needed, John.”

Dubious of anything involving molasses and cheddar, John just kept silent and carried the bags as asked when they made their way home. Once they were inside Sherlock got right to work, pulling down bowls and pulling out utensils and preheating the oven.

Just as John tried to sit in his chair again, Sherlock said louder than necessary, “John! I need you!”

He stood straight again, clenching his fists at his side. All he wanted to do was sit in his chair and read while possibly noxious biscuits were happening in the kitchen. Instead, he turned to Sherlock. “What do you need?”

John got hit with a full face of cloth, an apron to be precise, causing him to sputter in surprise. When he could see again he found Sherlock smirking. “You’re the sous chef.”

The process of making biscuits started out innocent enough. The directions were simple: sift flour and baking soda, powder and salt together. Whisk eggs, vanilla and sugar. Add some walnuts and chocolate chips. Combine together and spoon onto a cookie sheet. Bake.

Except that they never got to any more than sifting the dry ingredients.

Sherlock made a comment about John’s sifting. “You’re doing it wrong, John.”

“How many ways can there be to sift flour, Sherlock?”

“Clearly more than one since you’re not doing it correctly.”

That earned him a handful of correctly sifted flour thrown directly in his face. Sherlock’s mouth hanging open in surprise and his eyes fervently blinking away the flour pulled a satisfied laugh from John. It only got worse when Sherlock glowered at him and flour drifted down from his eyelashes and his hair and he tried hard to keep standing upright, covering his mouth with his flour dusted hand.

“That was uncalled for,” Sherlock said snippily.

“You don’t think that was funny,” John said, still giggling.

“You’ve wasted perfectly good ingredients.”

“There’s plenty more, we’ll just remeasure.”

And then John was hit with a full hand full of flour. He stood there stricken. He really shouldn’t have been surprised. His first move with the flour was childish and Sherlock was a master at being childish. He should have expected a reaction of that sort.

“Oh it is on, mate,” John said tipping the whole bowl over his head. Sherlock retaliated with throwing a handful of crushed walnuts at him. Somehow the eggs were gotten into and they wasted a whole dozen throwing them at each other as they ducked behind the walls of the kitchen and the table.

Trying to escape Sherlock’s last egg John slipped on the goop on the floor and rapidly fell to the ground. He didn’t go down alone, though. At the last second he grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and they both went tumbling into an ungraceful, disgusting mess onto the floor.

Several minutes later they were still laughing and rolling around on the floor trying to regain some semblance of calm.

“You do realize,” John gasped between breaths, “that if Mrs. Hudson comes up here and finds us like this, the flat like this, she’ll have us evicted.”

Sherlock gulped in air, still smiling. “Nonsense, John. She loves us.” He finally steeled his face into a mask of calm. “We’ll make her a tray of biscuits to apologize.”

That had them both laughing again all over again. They never did get to putting anything in the oven but, to John’s everlasting surprise, Sherlock did help with the clean up. Once the kitchen was back into it’s semi-pristine condition they showered where Sherlock continued his helpfulness to John's full satisfaction.


	9. Day 9 - Making a List

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally caught up! *phew* Thanks for being patient and I hope you guys will be ready for a new installment soon!

Logically, John knew asking Sherlock this question might end in disgust or disaster. He had no idea what Sherlock actually wanted for Christmas and although he had already bought him the most perfect set of cufflinks John figured he should at least ask the man if there was anything he wanted. He brought the question up while they were enjoying dinner out at Angelo’s in their usual table.

“Is there anything on your Christmas list this year,” he asked before taking a bite of his chicken parmesan.

Sherlock ticked an eyebrow up in amusement. “Should I have made a list?”

John chewed and thought about it. “If you like. I know you’re always keen on getting a kidney or a bag of toes or new slides for your scope. But is there anything you really want?”

Sherlock folded his hands and rested his chin on them above his plate of risotto. He had only eaten a few obligatory bites, it was date night after all, but he left most of it untouched while John ate. “Tell you what,” he said after contemplating for a few seconds. “You make a list and I will make one of my own and we’ll exchange them before bed tonight. Acceptable?”

John hadn’t even given thought to what he wanted. He took another bite, mulling over the offer and finally agreed. “Sure, why not.”

“Excellent.” He pushed the plate an inch towards John and said, “you should try this. Angelo’s outdone himself tonight, I think.”

The rest of the dinner John was distracted. The more he thought the harder it became to think of something that he really, truly wanted that Sherlock could purchase. Of course he could always use more socks or a new jumper. But he had everything he had ever wanted. He had cobbled together a strange sort of family that comprised of an aging but sweet landlady, a shy registrar at the morgue, an irritated and greying DI, even a sort of brother in Mycroft. It wasn’t the family he envisioned but it worked. And then there was Sherlock, of course. In him he had found a best friend, a lover, life partner. He had found a real home, love and happiness. They could be broke, homeless and eating out of a skip and he’d still be happy because they were together.

When they were at last home John sat at his desk and tapped his pen to his chin trying to think of anything that would make him as happy as Sherlock did. He looked across and saw Sherlock scribble unhurriedly one a piece of clean, lined paper. Unable to see over the stack of books between them John had to content himself with his own wonderings about what could have ended up on that paper until he was ready to swap.

When it looked like Sherlock had run out of steam John wrote a simple _You_ on the piece of paper and then, as an afterthought he wrote _socks_. He folded the paper and set it on the fence of books between them and sat back in his chair to wait until Sherlock was done. A minute later he was and he folded the paper he had used and placed it next to John’s on the books. They each reached for their intended slip of paper and began to read.

 

On Sherlock’s he had a laundry list of requests:

_Ingredients for producing thermite_

_1 intact human tongue_

_1 cow heart_

_Set of 12 test tubes - glass_

_New pocket magnifier to replace broken one_

_Continued on back ---- >_

 

John turned the page and read the scrawling handwriting.

_If none of those items are procurable or to your liking_

_might I suggest strapping a bow on yourself._

_You are more than enough._

 

Feeling the heat rise in his cheeks he bit his lip and flicked his eyes up to see Sherlock looking at him with such open affection that it made his heart ache. John couldn’t help but smile and say, “you’re such a sap, you know?”

“Really, John. I don’t see how a cow heart could be construed as ‘sappy’.” Then he asked, “socks?”

John huffed a small chuckle. “My feet get cold.”

He felt Sherlock’s feet shuffle over his own under the table. “Seem just fine to me,” Sherlock said, mirth in his voice.

“Maybe it’s just you, then.” He stood and held out a hand for Sherlock to take. Both standing, John drew the detective in for a kiss and said, “let’s get our sappy arses to bed, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded. “Would be a shame for your feet to suddenly become frozen, wouldn’t it?”

Later while they were snuggled in bed, socks on both their feet against the winter chill, John sighed happily into Sherlock’s curls. He slipped into a blissful sleep knowing that he still had everything he ever wanted and that Sherlock clearly felt the same.

All was right with the world and for once, John didn’t question it.


	10. Day 10 - Scrooge

John woke up to Mycroft and Sherlock talking in their living room. He groaned into the pillow, not particularly interested in verbally sparring with Sherlock’s brother but knowing if he left the two alone long enough shouting would be assured. He rubbed his eyes and stretched his limbs leisurely before rolling out of bed and putting on a dressing gown. In stockinged feet he walked into the living room to greet the two men.

Sherlock was in pacing agitatedly while Mycroft sat in John’s chair. John crossed the room and pulled Sherlock over to him and kiss him good morning. “Morning, love.” Turning to Mycroft he said evenly, “and Mycroft. To what do we owe the visit?”

“A matter of some delicacy and discretion.” He flicked his eyes to his brother and added, “and some urgency.”

“Right, well, shall I put the kettle on then?”

Sherlock replied, “yes, John. But don’t put out the good biscuits. Mycroft’s getting soft ‘round the middle.” He sneered at Mycroft. “Wouldn’t want my dear brother to go around feeling self conscious, we would?”

Mycroft smiled his irritated smile at him and said, “yes, we all know how you care for my mental well being. Now, would you please stop pacing like a caged animal and listen to what I have to say or am I going to have to get John involved?”

“Noooope,” John called from the kitchen. “Do not get me involved in your brotherly squabbles. Unless he’s accepted a case or his life is at stake I want nothing to do with whatever it is you’re discussing.” He caught Sherlock’s smile from the living room and he smiled back, winking.

“I’ll pace in my own home if I care to, Mycroft. You’ll just have to spit it out or get out,” Sherlock said succinctly.

“Very well,” Mycroft said, giving up on trying to make his brother comply with civility. “Put frankly, there is a case that I would like for you to take.”

Sherlock scoffed. “What kind of case.”

“The kind of case that should be discussed in private.”

“Anything you can say to me you say in front of John. Really, after all this time you should have at least grasped that.”

John walked into the living room carrying a tray of tea and, as Sherlock requested, the biscuits that were on the edge of stale and without the chocolate. He poured Sherlock a cup first, purposefully not keeping to his polite manners of serving the guest first on the principle that the guest was Mycroft. Then he made one for Mycroft and one for himself. He sat in Sherlock’s chair and motioned for Mycroft to continue. “Please, don’t hold out on government secrets on my account,” he said before taking a sip of his tea.

“I understand the nature of your relationship is one of great trust but I really must insist-”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, Mycroft,” Sherlock spat. “John would be assisting me on any case I accept and if you insist on talking to just me then I have to go over everything with John later and it’ll waste precious time.”

“You mean wasting time like you’re doing right now,” Mycroft countered. Sherlock huffed and went to stand in front of John with action in mind. He gestured for John to move his hands so he could sit in his lap, which he did with a prim huff in his brother’s direction. He maneuvered his legs over the arm of the chair with his bum in John’s lap before looking over at Mycroft. “Both of us or not at all.” He took a sip of his tea and said, “take your pick.”

John could see Mycroft was uncomfortable with seeing his brother in John’s lap. John took the opportunity to whisper in Sherlock’s ear, “do you know what he wants?”

Sherlock smirked and he whispered back, “a flash drive containing a sex tape has gone missing from his home. It contains the image of a very prominent person in the government wearing knickers.” John smiled, seeing Mycroft’s face twitch at their actions. “Boring, I know but since I know who took it there’s really no case.”

John whispered, “and who took it?”

“What are you whispering about,” Mycroft interrupted.

“About how we had sex in John’s chair last night and conveniently decided not to clean up before retiring to bed,” Sherlock said smartly. They had done no such thing but John laughed all the same at Mycroft’s blanched face.

“How very classy of you, brother dear. Now, if you’re quite finished with your disgusting displays of affection-”

“Don’t be such a scrooge,” John said. “If Sherlock says he doesn’t want the job then there must be a reason for it. How much are you offering for the job? Perhaps he doesn’t deem it worth it.”

“You know he doesn’t base his cases on money,” Mycroft said exasperatedly.

“Not all the time but when it comes to national security as you so claim,” John retorted, “then surely that’s worth some consideration.” He could feel Sherlock trying to hold back from outright laughing at John’s ploy. John knew full well it wasn’t about the money for Sherlock but bills needed to be paid and John liked to treat them every once in awhile. He knew Mycroft wouldn’t bat an eye at adding an extra zero to whatever he was offering previously and it would be a very merry Christmas indeed.

With a long suffering sigh Mycroft pulled out his checkbook and scribbled a sum and his signature and ripped it out of the book to hand to him. John, still weighed down by Sherlock’s bony weight, stretched out his arm to take it and nearly dropped his teacup when he saw the figure. And the fact that that the check came from his personal account rather than the expenditure account he normally used. He quickly whispered to Sherlock, “did you steal your brother’s sex tape?” Sherlock, with a barely contained smile, nodded and John had to shove his fist in his mouth to keep from laughing. He covered his barely escaped laugh with a cough and said, “I can safely say he’s agreed to take the case. I’ll just go take a shower.”

He took the check into the bedroom with him into the bedroom while he gathered his clothes for the day. Two minutes later Sherlock joined him in the bedroom and said, “he’s gone.”

“Did you give him back the flash drive?”

“Course I did. Who would want to watch that anyway? I’d vomit so much I’d be in danger of severe dehydration.”

John laughed and lead the way to the shower. “And is he letting us keep that rather absurd amount of money?”

Sherlock nodded as he disrobed. “Hush money.”

“Is that what you had intended when you stole it,” John asked, curious.

“Not as such. I wanted to see if he would ask for my assistance, knowing that I would be discreet in retrieving it.” He smiled widely, “I did not know he would offer so much to keep his rather boring kinks under wraps.”

“Well then,” John said, turning on the tap, “happy Christmas to us.”


	11. Day 11 - Mulled Wine

John came home to the delightful smell of mulled wine. Even before he had reached the top of the stairs to their flat he could smell the notes of citrus, cinnamon and nutmeg float down the stairs to greet him as he came in from the cold.

He came in the door and said, “is that mulled wine I smell?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock said from the kitchen. “It’s not ready yet, though.”

John toed off his shoes and hung his coat before joining Sherlock in the kitchen. He kissed the back of Sherlock’s neck and said, “now this I could get used to. A man in the kitchen when I come home everyday.”

Sherlock scoffed, “you are decidedly dating the wrong man if you think this will be a regular performance.”

Chuckling, John shuffled to lean against the counter next to him as Sherlock stirred the wine. “And what’s brought on tonight’s performance?” Sherlock pointed to a full case of wine bottles that John had entirely not noticed when he walked in. “Where in the world did we get these?”

“A gentleman whose name I have deleted delivered these to us today as a thank you for solving his case several months ago.”

John read the label on the crate. _James Cavendish_ , a man that hired them to find a stolen case of rare and expensive wine, a certain _Domaine Leroy Musigny Grand Cru_ , that had been stolen from his stores. He had paid them handsomely for finding it in both money and wine, both of which were thoroughly enjoyed. John saw that there was an unopened envelope that found it’s way to the empty space on the bottom of the crate. He opened it and read the neat scrawl:

 

_Dear Mister Sherlock,_

_Thank you again for finding the jewel of my collection._

_Hopefully these will help you enjoy the season all the more._

_Enjoy them in good health. Happy Christmas!_

_-Sincerely,_

_James Cavendish_

 

“That must be one amazing bottle of wine for that man to have spent such a large sum of money on a bonus for his detective.”

“What are you on about?” John showed him the letter.

“Remember the case with the stolen wine? I wrote about it, _Bottle Betrayal_?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly in remembrance. “Oh yes, the Grand Cru. Very expensive.”

“How much was it worth again?”

Sherlock sniffed the mulling wine. “Just over nine thousand pound.”

“Jesus,” John said, slipping the card into its envelope again. “And they don’t even drink it. It just sits.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement. “Seems an awful shame to waste good wine.”

John eyed the wine in the crate. He jerked a thumb to it and asked, “how much you figure are those bottles worth?”

Sherlock lifted an empty bottle off the counter and read the label again. “It’s a 1945 _Chateau Mosse Rivesaltes_ so probably around £130, give or take.”

John’s mouth went agape. “And you are using it to make mulled wine?”

“Yep,” Sherlock said with a popping sound at the end.

John couldn’t help but giggle. “You are an absolute nutter! Using good wine just to cook spices in!”

Sherlock shrugged. “Seemed a convenient use as any.”

An hour later John and Sherlock were sprawled in their chairs in front of the fire with two full mugs of mulled wine. John inhaled deeply, letting the spices tickle his nose and make his mouth water. He took a sip of the wine and let the velvety, spicy-sweet liquid coat his tongue. He hummed in pleasure around the warm wine, closing his eyes.

“Any good,” Sherlock said, knowing full well how good it was.

“I think we should waste good wine like this every year,” John replied.

“It’s not a waste if you’re enjoying it,” Sherlock said after tasting his own.

John raised his mug in toast and said, “I’ll drink to that.”


	12. Day 12 - Ugly Sweaters

 

“No,” Sherlock tells John in a firm voice. “Don’t you dare buy that wretched thing.”

The two men were out for a leisurely stroll, a chance to get out in the warmer than usual air, when John stopped them in front of a kitschy clothing store. There, in the window on a hideously lime green mannequin with a Santa’s hat atop its head, was an ugly Christmas jumper. It was the kind that wasn’t so over the top with tinsel and baubles glued on it. Nor was it the kind that was so fashionable these days, with their bright patterns and “in fashion” patterns. No. This one was an acceptable color with a pattern that your mum would buy not knowing how ridiculously ugly it was. With its forest green color and happy looking Rudolph on the front it was just perfectly tacky enough that it brought a smile to John’s face.

And of course Sherlock hated it.

He already hated a fair number of John’s jumpers, excluding a select few that he had grown fond of when John wore them. He much prefered John in his cardigans and button downs rather than the big, wooly jumpers John favored. And of course John would be out and about with Sherlock when the perfect ugly Christmas jumper would find him, even if he did not intend on buying it.

“Oh come on, Sherlock,” John teased. “It’s really not that bad.”

“John,” Sherlock said in a clipped voice. “If you bring that wretched thing into the flat I will not be responsible for the consequences,” he warned.

John took Sherlock’s elbow and led him away from the shop’s window, grinning all the while. “No more fires. You heard Mrs. Hudson when your last little...incident prompted us to buy a new stove.”

“All the same,” Sherlock insisted. “I shall not be held responsible.”

With that one phrase a challenge had been issued. John could let it go and give in to Sherlock’s childish hatred of his jumpers, festive or not, or John could get on his level and play the game. _The game is SO on, John thought wryly_. 

Later, while Sherlock was fully engrossed in a new body that Molly had allowed him to play with at Bart’s, John rushed back to the store that housed the hideous jumper. Before he left he kissed Sherlock’s cheek and said, “got to run a quick errand. Be back in a tick.” Sherlock just waved a gory, gloved hand at him and made an uninterested grunt to acknowledge John’s departure. Luckily he had hailed a cab right away and made it to the shop in record time. Grinning like a loon, he asked the lady at the counter if he could change before he rushed back to Sherlock at Bart’s. Looking at himself in the long mirror he couldn’t help but start to giggle.

Even if Sherlock utterly destroyed the unfortunate wool monstrosity it would be worth it to see the look on Sherlock’s face when John took off his jacket at home.

After shoving his old jumper in a nondescript paper bag John rushed back to Bart’s just in time for Molly to kick Sherlock out of her morgue.

“Time’s up Sherlock,” Molly said, hands on her hips. “I gave you two hours which was one and half more than I should have given you.”

“But look at this, it’s fascinating. The tumors in his gut have nearly surrounded his colon! I mean, it’s remarkable he didn’t die sooner,” Sherlock said excitedly.

Molly pointed a finger to the door, “out! I need my lab back. For my job. Which you are now disrupting.”

Sherlock pouted and opened his mouth to try and weasel more time out of her but John intervened, zipping his jacket to cover the jumper fully. “Sherlock, I’m sure if you do as she says she’ll let you come back when something new comes in.” He silently sent a pleading look for Molly to play along so Sherlock would leave her in peace.

“Course I would,” Molly agreed at once. “I always do.”

Rolling his eyes and snapping his gloves off with a dramatic sigh. “Fiiiiine.” He dropped the soiled gloves in the bin and grabbed his coat off the stand. He moved to leave without another word but John cleared his throat in a subtle reminder to thank Molly. Sighing once more like a toddler about to have a tantrum, he turned around to look at her once more with a fake smile, still irritated at being ousted, and said, “thank you for allowing me to examine the body.”

“You’re welcome, Sherlock.” Molly smiled genuinely and watched Sherlock breeze past John and then mouthed a silent “thank you” to John as well. John shook his head in a silent “no problem” and followed Sherlock out.

He caught up with Sherlock as he was flagging down a cab. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Immensely,” Sherlock said shortly. He slid into the cab and told the cabbie the address before addressing John again. “Wish I could have gotten another hour. You should have seen the tumors, John!”

In the seat beside him John held up a hand to stop Sherlock’s talking. “No thank you. I get enough disgusting things from the surgery and your crime scenes.”

Sherlock gave him a look that clearly told John that he was mad for not wanting to inspect the tumors that had killed the poor man on Molly’s table. Regardless of John’s distaste for the gory details Sherlock prattled on about his observations in the cadaver until they stopped in front of their flat. But he wasn’t paying attention to his cadaver talk. He was smirking internally thinking about the moment he would unveil the ugly jumper he hid beneath his jacket. he pursed his lips trying to restrain the laughter that was at the front of his mouth, trying to escape. When Sherlock slid out of the cab John paid and apologized for his boyfriend’s unsavory conversation topic.

He caught up with Sherlock just as he opened their front door and followed as he went up the stairs. They walked through the flat door and Sherlock whipped off his coat with a flourish and hung it on its hook while John dropped his bag from earlier. He looked at John in an irritated fashion, the high of gushing his experience in the morgue having worn off, and huffed to John. “What am I to do with the rest of my afternoon, John?”

John gave him a knowing grin and unzipped his jacket. “I am sure I don’t know.” When he parted the halves of the coat, releasing the image of the happy Rudolph on his jumper, Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise and then squinted in further irritation.

“What is that,” Sherlock asked, knowing full well what it was that graced John’s form.

John spread his now jacketless arms and asked facetiously, “what? Is there something on me?”

Sherlock took a step closer, backing John into the door. “You know very well what is on you.”

John smirked up at him. “Then why did you ask?”

Sherlock didn’t answer he just ran his fingers dangerously along the hem of the jumper, making John’s belly quiver in sudden desire. He hadn’t anticipated this type of reaction. He anticipated a shocked face and whinging about having not knowing that John would buy the jumper and a strop and, lastly, a horribly mangled jumper in the morning. But this, the predatory stalk of an aroused Sherlock, was entirely an surprise.

“I told you I wouldn’t be responsible for any consequences that arise if you bought this appalling waste of fabric.”

 _Terrible shame, then,_ John thought with humor. A consequence of Sherlock’s dark tone, piercing gaze and close proximity had caused a stir in his jeans that was difficult to ignore. Feeling his mouth go dry, he licked his lips and asked, “and what exactly do you intend to do? Can’t very well destroy it while I’m wearing it can you?”

Sherlock’s eyes drifted to the reindeer on his front then back up to John’s face and his mouth broke out with a toothy grin. “Well then,” he leaned in, his lips hovering just above John’s. “I shall have to remedy that, won’t I?”

And then he crashed his lips into John’s and John kissed back enthusiastically. Their lips fought for dominance, nipping and tugging at lips and tongues and groaning into each other’s mouths. Sherlock pressed John further into the solid door behind him and ground his pelvis into John’s. They could feel their mutual interest rub together and they shivered. John closed his eyes and let his head tip back to rest against the door and that’s when Sherlock made his move to remove the offending jumper.

As quick as he could without knocking John’s head into the wall behind his head, Sherlock grasped the hem of the jumped and yanked it up. John complied with the movement, raising his arms to let the fabric slide up and over his head. With a growl, Sherlock flung the garment into the living room out of sight and mind. John grabbed Sherlock’s hips and pulled them together again, grinding their hips together. “Bed,” John grunted hoarsely, maneuvering the detective by his hands on his waistband, shoving them off the door and down the hallway.

The rest of their clothes disappeared item by item as they stumbled their way to their bedroom until they were writhing on the bed naked. Once their clothes were removed John took control of the situation, pushing Sherlock into the mattress. He licked Sherlock from his collarbone to his ear, sucking his lobe into his mouth. Sherlock keened at the pressure of John’s teeth against the sensitive skin.

Releasing the tender flesh, John whispered hotly in Sherlock’s ear, “not bored now are you?” Sherlock shook his head, already desperate for more. Mercilessly, John refused to go further until Sherlock admitted it. “Use your words, Sherlock,” he said with a flick of his tongue to the inside of his ear.

Sherlock squirmed and clutched at John’s hair and shoulder, gasping, “no! Nnnot bored.”

“Good,” John cooed. Sherlock shivered at the praise and John grinned, peppering kisses down Sherlock’s neck. “Let’s see if we can keep you that way.”

John trailed his lips, kissing and licking across Sherlock’s collarbone, ghosting over his nipples and then down his belly. He sucked a big purple bruise into Sherlock’s hip and Sherlock’s legs clamped down around him until he finally released the purpling skin and laved his tongue over the mark. He admired his handiwork for a moment, tracing it delicately with a finger. Sherlock hissed at the contact and whined, wanting John’s attention elsewhere.

“Hush, darling. You know I’ll take care of you,” John whispered as he lowered his mouth again directly about Sherlock’s hardness.

“Please,” Sherlock begged, one hand clutching the sheets and the other John’s shoulder.

“So good, asking so nicely,” John teased, licking the tip of Sherlock’s erection. “You know I always give you want you want when you ask nicely.”

“ _Please!_ ,” Sherlock begged again, panting and desperate.

“My pleasure,” John said before sliding Sherlock’s hard cock deep into his throat. A groan of satisfaction ripped through Sherlock and he tightened his grip on John’s shoulder. John hummed around him, sliding the hot, hard flesh in and out of his mouth in an even rhythm. He hollowed his cheeks and swallowed around Sherlock as he moaned and struggled not to thrust into John’s mouth.

“God, John,” he sobbed, “please, please, I-I need…”

John hummed in sympathy but he wasn’t done playing with him just yet. He pulled off and Sherlock whined at the loss. John’s firm hand replaced his mouth and he fondled Sherlock lightly as he levered himself to hover about Sherlock. “Tell me what you plan to do it,” John demanded.

Sherlock forced his eyes open to stare slack jawed at him. “What? Do to...to what,” he asked confusedly.

John smiled and kissed Sherlock’s chest, keeping his touches light. “To the jumper.” He punctuated each word with a kiss. “The one you so despised.”

Sherlock groaned in desperation. “Jooohn!”

“Sherloooock,” he mimicked, kissing his lips. “Tell me what you plan to do.”

Sherlock scrunched his eyes, trying to think. “Burn it!”

John sucked his teeth at him, “tsk tsk, no fires remember?” He gave him one long, firm pull and kissed his nose. “Try again.”

Sherlock bit his lip and tried again. “Sh-shred it!”

“Is that all,” John inquired evenly, almost calmly despite his desperate need to finish them both. He rewarded the idea with another two firm, quick pulls on Sherlock’s cock.

“Aah-acid,” Sherlock choked. “Afterward I’ll dissolve it in acid,” he said quickly.

John hummed in approval and kissed him deeply. “Perfect, lovely, so clever,” John praised, speeding up his movements much to the relief of Sherlock. He was so close, wound so tight that he began thrusting into John’s hand and moaning uncontrollably. When John removed his hand for the briefest of moments to slick his hand with his tongue Sherlock nearly sobbed. But then he was back, coaxing Sherlock to orgasm with his had and then he was coming all over John’s hand, his hips stuttering beneath him.

“Fuck you’re gorgeous like this,” John breathed. He guided his soiled hand to his own neglected cock and stroked himself quickly. He came in no time, his orgasm so near from just pleasuring and teasing Sherlock. It took a dozen slick tugs and then he was coming all over Sherlock’s stomach, groaning through his orgasm.

He collapsed on the bed next to him, wrapping the arm with his clean hand around Sherlock carefully to avoid the mess on his stomach. Their breathing evened out after a few minutes. John kissed his cheek and said, “if that is the consequence for buying hideous jumpers then I shall have to do it more often.”

Sherlock peeked a disgruntled eye at him and said as seriously as he could post-orgasm, “don’t even think about it.”

When John woke up the next morning it was to the caustic smell of chemicals filtering through their house. Groaning in irritation at his rude wake-up call, John shoved his arms through his dressing gown and stomped to the kitchen. As he walked down the hallway he called, “Sherlock, what in the hell is that smell?”

When he rounded the corner into the kitchen he found Sherlock on his stool, dressed in his dressing gown, safety goggles and rubber gloves. And he was dangling a piece of green fabric over a very large and boiling beaker with a set of tongs. “Ah, John! Just in time.” He looked up at John. “Put on the spare pair of goggles and say goodbye to your jumper.” With a smile he released the fabric into the boiling liquid. John’s mouth hung open in horror.

“What in bloody hell are you doing?”

Sherlock plucked another strip of fabric from the table and dangled it over the beaker. “What I said I would do last night, obviously. Disposing of this atrocity.” The tongs opened again and the fabric dropped into the beaker.

John quickly donned the spare pair of goggles and watched as, piece by piece, his former jumper disappeared into the boiling liquid. He looked at Sherlock with a mixture of disbelief and absolute belief and said. “Just one more question.”

“Fire away,” Sherlock said, dropping another piece in.

“What is it that you’re dissolving that jumper into?”

“Sodium hydroxide,” Sherlock replied. He lifted the last piece, the reindeer’s head that had been neatly cut from the rest of the jumper. He shook it at John, smiling widely before folding it and taking it with the tongs to hold over the beaker. “Bye bye Rudolph.”

John would absolutely not be buying anymore ugly jumpers anytime soon.


	13. Day 13 - Warming up by the fire

John and Sherlock tiptoed through the decrepit building they had chased their suspect into. John held the gun firmly in his hands as he walked in front of Sherlock, the pattern of sweeping for insurgents coming back all too familiarly. They came to a corner and John stuck his head and arms out, checking for their suspect and finding the coast clear he motioned for Sherlock to follow.

Which he did at a leisurely pace and did not seem at all concerned that they were chasing an arsonist with nothing to lose. They came to a door that led an emergency exit stairway to the next floor and John paused with his back to the wall to scowl at Sherlock.

“Could you perhaps take this situation seriously,” he whispered irritatedly. Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I take this very seriously, John.” He waved his arms about, looking like an agitated bird, “I probably would have found him sooner if you didn’t insist on moving at a glacier’s pace!”

“I don’t really enjoy the thought of being burnt to a crisp because we were in too big a hurry not to notice a tripwire and set off one of this bloke’s bombs, do you?” He cocked his head, humming questioningly but before Sherlock could answer John snapped, “I don’t think you do. Now, would you put your strop on pause and keep an eye out?”

John turned the knob for the doorway and checked the stairwell before waving Sherlock on. He heard him mutter faintly, “strop, if we lose him then he’ll really see a strop.”

Ignoring his partner for the time being, John swept the stairway with his phone watching for tripwire. He whispered to Sherlock, “look above us and watch for anyone coming down or going up.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Sherlock muttered sarcastically. But one stern look from John was all it took for Sherlock to fall in line.

They made their way slowly up. No trip wires and no bombs strapped in obvious places but still the soldier in John warned that danger was near and he kept vigilant. Sherlock suggested moving to the roof, the most logical place for their suspect to have fled to. The easiest escape point.

As they came to the landing two stories from the top they heard a door slam that jerked them both from their upward glancing. John silently motioned for Sherlock to keep behind him as he checked the door. Finding no traps, he pushed the door open carefully, waiting for any shifts that would suggest danger. They crept onto the floor and John swept the hall looking for their suspect. The building had been a former business office that catered to several businesses at once. Each floor, all eight of them had a different layout and a different number of rooms. The floor they had heard the noise come from had ten and together the men checked them. One by one they found nothing until they came to the last room.

John opened the door and found their suspect with a bomb vest strapped to his chest.

“You’ve finally cornered me,” he said with an unreasonably amused chuckle.

They stepped just inside the door, John covering Sherlock’s back. “You were quick,” Sherlock replied. He slid a squinted look at John and added, “if my companion wasn’t so careful with our search we might have caught you before you strapped that bomb to yourself.”

The man chuckled low again. “Your _companion_ has every right to be cautious.” He pointed to the ducts that lined the ceiling. “I’ve put a shocking amount of explosives in the ductwork all over this building.” He fingered a button on his chest, “once I press this button my vest will go off, setting off a chain reaction that will set off one bomb at random every minute until this building collapses.” He smiled cruelly, “hopefully with you trapped inside it, you motherfucking meddlers!”

“You’re bluffing,” Sherlock stated simply. He tried to take another step but John reached out to grab his arm and stopping him.

“Am I now?” He laughed once more and said, “joke’s on you, detective. See you in hell.”

“Sherlock!,” John shouted and tugging the man through the door and ducking behind the wall just as their suspect pressed the button that set off the bomb on his chest. The blast shot debris through the door, rattling the foundation and a puff of fire and smoke billowed out causing them to choke and cough.

With his ears ringing, John pulled Sherlock’s head down to his face and shouted over the ringing, “ we need to get out of here! Follow me and keep close! We don’t know where the next one will go off!” He jerked Sherlock’s arm to get him to follow and then they were dashing off down the stairs as John tucked his gun into his waistband. It was the most direct way down with the fewest amount of ductwork. With any luck they would be safe.

They were halfway down the stairs when another boom echoed above, just one floor above them, and they felt the building shake again. John just hoped that it hadn’t damaged anything load-bearing. They were too close to be stuck now. “Fifty seconds,” Sherlock shouted at him as they quickened their pace.

They burst out of the stairwell just in time for a bomb to go off in the ceiling to their left. It showered down chunks of concrete and dust and a burst of flame. The force of the blast knocked them to their knees and again their eyes and lungs were assaulted with dust particles. Sherlock lifted up an edge of his coat to prevent chunks from hitting them, shielding John with his body. When they were able to get themselves to their feet Sherlock rasped loudly, “thirty seconds!”

They took off as fast as they could towards the exit, the door they had entered through. But they were too late. Just as they were about to run through the doors the ceiling above them exploded and rained down giant chunks of concrete. John felt something large hit the back of his head where his hands didn’t quite cover and pain surged through him. He stumbled and his vision became blurry as he dropped to his knees.

Soon he found himself buried in debris, miraculously still alive. _The bombs must not be as strong as the prick thought_ , he thought to himself as his vision swam.

“John!” He felt hands bury themselves in his armpits and then he was being tugged upward and dragged through the twisted, ruined door. “Stay with me, John!” He groaned at Sherlock’s rough movements but didn’t complain. Even through the haze and odd calm in the situation he knew they needed to be well away from the building if they were both to live. He just couldn’t quite get the rest of his body to cooperate with the gravity of the situation.

They dragged themselves away to a safe enough distance. Just a block away, they could still hear the sporadic explosions as the building slowly collapsed on itself. Sherlock dropped John on the pavement and held his face in his hands. “John! John, can you hear me?” Sherlock’s panicked voice shouted at him, but his head hurt and his ears were still ringing and he was fuzzy.

“Sherrrrr....” was the extent that John seemed to be the only thing he was capable of muttering.

“John Watson don’t you dare leave me! It’s just a bump on the head so snap out of it,” Sherlock said petulantly. John forced his eyes to open wide enough to see that Sherlock’s angry eyes had tears in them. “Don’t leave me…”

John’s hand rose shakily to grab onto Sherlock’s lapels to hold him close. He wanted to tell Sherlock that he wasn’t going anywhere. That he would be fine in a minute. But his mouth and head wouldn’t cooperate. Soon they heard sirens racing down the street and flying past them on the street to the building they had escaped from.

Just in time for the whole building to burst into flames. Sherlock covered John’s body with his own, hoping they were far enough that nothing would come screaming towards them. John tilted his head to see the crater that had been a building erupt in flames. And then John’s vision went black and he knew no more.

When John awoke he was in a hospital room that was jarringly bright. He groaned as he squinted his eyes open, putting a hand over his eyes to shield them from the glare.

“John?” A soft voice next to him called out and he knew it immediately. “Should I kill the lights?”

“Please,” he croaked. Seconds later the room was dimmed and John could open his eyes fully.

“How long,” he asked Sherlock.

“You remember everything?”

John nodded delicately, regretting the motion. “How long?”

“Three hours. Three hours and approximately twelve minutes.” Sherlock’s hands were shaking even though his voice was even. “You have four stitches at the base of your skull that will need to be removed in a week.” He hesitantly clasped John’s hand in his own. “How do you feel?”

“Well,” John said, pushing himself to sit up more fully. “I can feel the back of my head throbbing though I feel no pain-”

“They gave you lortab,” Sherlock supplied. “For the pain for when you woke.”

“Ah,” John replied. “But aside from that I am a little tired and very thirsty.” He licked his dry lips. Sherlock silently supplied a small cup of water and John sipped it slowly. He handed the cup back to Sherlock who put it back on the table. “How are you? You weren’t hurt were you?” From what John could ascertain at a glance he didn’t seem to be injured.

“Aside from nearly dying from a heart attack,” Sherlock said with a mirthless laugh. “Couple scratched. A nasty bruise on the back of my leg but,” his eyes suddenly filled with tears. “I’m fine.”

“Oh Sherlock,” John whispered. His heart ached to see Sherlock suffer. The fact that it was at his expense made it worse. He opened his arms and Sherlock fell into them, crawling onto the bed with him. They held each other while John smoothed Sherlock’s disheveled curls. “Shh, it’s okay, love. I’m still here.”

During their shuffle on the bed the sensor that monitored John’s vitals slipped off his finger and made the machines go off and three nurses burst into the room. One nurse said, “sir, I’m going to have to ask you to get out of that bed. The patient-”

“John,” Sherlock snapped at them. “John Watson.”

“John,” she said more gently. “John needs to be on bed rest for a few more hours and then you can take him home.”

“It’s fine,” John said to her. “Really, I’ll rest better with him here and you’ll have a fun bit trying to get him to leave,” he said with a laugh.

“Still,” she came over and he could feel Sherlock tense against him. “We still need to monitor you so we need this,” she reattached the finger sensor to John’s left middle finger, “to stay on.”

“Thank you,” John said politely. He silently pleaded with her to leave them be and she did. When she closed the door behind her Sherlock finally relaxed against him. They stayed like that for a few minutes wrapped in each other’s arms and the silence. John started to slip into a doze but what jarred awake again by the gentleness of Sherlock’s voice.

“I was so scared, John.” He sucked in a shaky breath and swallowed thickly. “I would have died if you had left me.”

John kissed the top of his head. “I’m not going anywhere. Not for a very long time.” He tilted Sherlock’s head up by his chin and said, “in a couple hours you’ll be pouring our aching bodies into a cab that will take us home where Mrs. Hudson will no doubt be waiting for us with fresh, hot tea and an obscenely large plate of scones.” Sherlock chuckled and John continued, “we will take the tea and scones and Mrs. Hudson’s fussing over us upstairs where we’ll make us a nice little fire to ward off the chill of this extremely cold evening. And then we’ll sit in front of it in our chairs and pajamas until your snobby brother and our irritated favorite DI show up to talk to us about what happened.” He kissed Sherlock’s nose and ended with, “and then we will go to bed and we will not move from it for a very,” he kissed his jaw, “long,” he kissed the corner of his mouth, “time.” He sealed the speech with a firm kiss against Sherlock’s mouth.

Just as John described, two hours later the nurse came back with discharge papers. John dressed in his dusty clothes and they wheeled him out in a wheelchair and Sherlock grabbed them a cab. He held John’s hand and helped him in even though John didn’t need the help. John knew Sherlock needed to hover and feel like he was useful and so he let him fuss as much as he needed to feel better. The short ride back to Baker street was uneventful. When they walked through the door they were immediately assaulted by Mrs. Hudson’s concerned fussing.

“Oh, you boys gave me such a scare! You tapdance on my poor nerves!”

“Mrs. Hudson, John’s had a rough night,” Sherlock tried to dissuade further conversation but she wasn’t having any of it.

“I spent all night punching dough and making scones. Do you want a plate? And I can put the kettle on, would a cuppa help you, John?” She prattled on and on as they walked up the stairs but they were so exhausted they just let her go on. She put the kettle on without being asked and left briefly only to reappear with a loaf of banana bread and scones and biscuits.

“Thank you Mrs. Hudson, we really appreciate it.” John smiled at her to make sure she knew the sentiment was for real. “Well, I’ll just leave you boys-”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock finally burst. “We’ll ring if we need anything further.” He herded her out the door and sagged against the closed door with a sigh.

John laughed and shook his head, “she means well.”

Sherlock didn’t deem an answer. He did, however build up the fire for John and pulled a blanket from the couch over to cover his legs. “‘Are you warm enough?”

“Just about,” John said, tugging Sherlock into his lap. He sighed loudly, “ah, that does it.”

The kettle whistled and it startled both of them. “The kettle, John.” He slid off John’s lap and came back a minute later with two mugs of hot tea. He settled back into John’s lap, careful not to jostle their mugs. They let the warmth of the fire settle into their bones and relax their troubles. John knew that they would have to shake the sleepiness from their limbs soon to receive Mycroft and Lestrade. They would have to take a shower and get dressed in pajamas. They would have to bank the fire and crawl into bed and sleep. But for the moment, John basked in the warmth of the solid man in his lap, the heat of the tea in his belly and the glow of the fire.


	14. Day 14 - Trimming the Tree

When Sherlock walked in carrying a tree John was gobsmacked. Sherlock previously hadn’t expressed any interest in Christmas or the traditions that came with it. The concept of Christmas didn’t even enter into his big, beautiful brain unless a locked room murder came into the picture. But all the same, while John sat recovering from his injuries of the night prior, the sight of Sherlock carrying a sizeable, fresh tree made him wonder if he was hallucinating.

“What’s all this then,” John asked curiously.

“What does it look like, John?” He heaved and leaned the thing against their desk, sending pens and papers to scuttling and falling.

“It looks like you’ve let some Christmas cheer find it’s way in,” John said chuckling.

Sherlock suddenly looked sheepish. He bit his lip and averted his eyes, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Well, I figured. You know, since you’re not to leave the flat. And this place isn’t exactly “Christmassy” that you might enjoy it.” He waved a dismissive hand in the air and forced some disinterest into his voice, “‘Yuletide’ cheer and all that nonsense. I hear it does a wealth of good for one’s mental state though I can’t imagine why.”

John rose from his chair to stand in front of Sherlock. “Is that your roundabout way of telling me that you would like to keep me occupied today by having us decorate the flat? That you think it will make me feel better to have tinsel and fairy lights strung up everywhere?” He gave him a small smirk and crossed his arms. It was really very sweet and John still, no matter how many times Sherlock did so, was surprised and touched by his partner’s attempts at affection and care taking.

“Are you saying you wouldn’t,” Sherlock asked defensively.

John chuckled and drew Sherlock’s hands to him and kissed him sweetly. “You’re really a big of sweetheart, you know that?”

Sherlock smiled shyly. “Don’t let anyone else catch on.”

John patted his cheek and walked off towards his old bedroom which had become storage. “I’ll help with the boxes.”

Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders and steered him back towards his chair. “You’ll do no such thing. You have a head injury, no need to exacerbate it.”

“This from the man who escaped a hospital hours after surgery. After dying on the table!” John snorted, “exacerbating, you’re one to talk.”

“Yes well, we all can’t be so careless.” Sherlock left to collect the boxes and John watched him go with his mouth hanging open. He had never before heard Sherlock admit fault for leaving the hospital before. Had never heard him describe himself as careless. Stupid, yes, whenever he failed to see a piece of evidence, however insignificant or crucial it may be. When Sherlock returned with a big box in his arms John was still staring.

“Close your mouth, John. You look like a caught-fish.”

John closed his mouth with a click and sat in his chair as Sherlock bounced back up the stairs to retrieve a second box. Once both boxes with their decorations stuffed inside were opened and ready to be rummaged through John joined him.

He held the tree steady as Sherlock guided it into the tree stand and secured it. Together they wrapped several strings of lights onto the tree, having a small spat over who put them away the last time they were used and the knotted state of them. Glass baubles and stars and novelty ornaments joined the lights on the tree, one by one. Then lastly came the tree topper.

“I think it’s quite fitting,” John said, grinning as he looked at Sherlock’s handiwork.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, satisfied. He stepped down from his chair that he used to raise himself up the last couple of inches needed to stick Billy the skull atop their tree.

They stood back and looked at their efforts. The dim flat let the multicolored lights paint the walls in bright, happy spots of color and gave Billy a technicolor look. The glass ornaments twinkled with the lights. It gave the flat a lovely, warm glow and John felt himself sigh in contentment.

“Good work, Mister Holmes.” He took his partner’s hand and kissed. “Fine work, indeed.”

Sherlock put his free arm around John’s waist and pulled him close. “Feeling better about your confinement? Is the state of your cell amenable?”

Unlike Sherlock, John never minded a couple days of imposed rest. Some people didn’t mind having a small vacation. But he didn’t tell Sherlock that. Instead, John laughed. “Yes, you berk.” He kissed him softly, briefly. “Very.”


	15. Day 15 - Christmas Party

“So, will we be seeing you at the Christmas party John? Sherlock?” Lestrade had a hopeful smile on his face but John could tell he hadn’t really thought that Sherlock would agree to attend the Yarder’s Christmas party. John would try his best to convince him but if Sherlock refused he would drop in for a pint or two with the DI. He had, after all, been immensely patient with Sherlock and his antics and had been a bit of a sounding board for John in the past as well as a shoulder to lean on. John owed it to him.

“Of course, Graham,” Sherlock said with a small smile.

John did a double take. Lestrade’s mouth dropped open. “Really? You’re not just saying that to be nice and then not show are you,” he asked skeptically. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Honestly Lestrade, when will you learn to trust me?” Without another word about Christmas parties or cases or anything else the detective turned on his heel and walked out of Lestrade’s office. John and Lestrade were left staring at the space he used to occupy in mutual, silent confusion. “Coming, John,” Sherlock called in question from the hallway.

“Right,” John said, shaking off the shock. “We’ll see you tomorrow night then, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade said in a bewildered whisper.

The cab ride home from Scotland Yard started as one filled with Sherlock’s excited chatter about how cigarette ash helped him solve the case. “And you thought that knowledge would ever amount to anything,” he said triumphantly. He sniffed, amused, and added, “show what you idiots know.”

And then John couldn’t keep still anymore. “But you hate parties.” He looked at his partner with a raised eyebrow and crossed arms. “Getting you to attend any kind of function under your own free will is akin to pulling teeth from a tiger.”

“Have you ever had to pull teeth from a tiger, John? Must have been fascinating,” Sherlock replied sarcastically.

“You know what I mean. Why are you so willing to go to the party tomorrow?”

“What is it with you and Lestrade being so shocked and suspicious? I can go to any party I want to why am I being subjected to a formal inquisition on my motives,” Sherlock said, throwing his hands in the air like a petulant child. “

Shall I kindly remind you that trying to get you to go to the royal palace was like? What press conferences are like? How about the last Christmas party Lestrade invited you to, hmm?”

Sherlock ticked off on his fingers, “the first Mycroft was involved and you can’t expect me to willingly accept any invitation Mycroft extends me. As to the press conferences may I remind you how I detest paperwork and that standing in front of a camera and a group full of people who are barely more intelligent than the average preschooler is like walking, talking paperwork. And the last Christmas party was an idiot buffet with their insignificant, boring lives on drunken display for me to read and then they get mad when I can read their affairs in the state of their jewelry.” He crossed his arms and slunk down into the cushions of the cab.

“I’ll concede you the first two but Sherlock,” John said, truly trying to suss out why Sherlock wanted to go. “That “idiot buffet” will be there again this year, like every year. What’s so different about this year?” Sherlock turned his head towards the window and remain resolutely silent. “Love, please tell me.” He put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I promise not to laugh or make fun and if it doesn’t break any laws I might even join in or turn a blind eye to any pranking you might be planning.” That earned an amused snort from the detective. John scooted closer and leaned into him. “Please tell me?”

John was a patient man even if it didn’t always show when Sherlock was involved. All his huffing and puffing and their shouting matches could be much worse and frequent if John didn’t rein in his bubbling anger most of the time. He could wait a lifetime for his madhatter lover to tell him anything and everything. And so there he waited, comfortingly leaning in and trying to sooth Sherlock’s ruffled feathers.

At last, Sherlock sighed deeply and and dramatically. “It’s because you’ll be with me.”

John blinked. “But I’m always with you. I was there at the palace, you knew I would be. I was there at all the press conferences, all the speeches, all the parties over the years. What’s changed?” Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible under his breath. “What?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and spoke up more clearly. “You were never really with me on those occasions. You were not there for me you were there because of me.”

John rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and felt him tense. “Is that what you’ve thought all these years? That I went to those things because I was just your friend? That I didn’t want to be there, to be there with you or for you when you needed me?”

Sherlock shrugged minutely, raising John’s head. He lapsed back into sullen silence.

“Love, look at me?” Sherlock resolutely endeavored to remain difficult and silent. “Please? I want you to see my face when I say this.” Sherlock turned his head slowly, reluctantly bringing his eyes to meet John’s. “Do not think for one second that I ever wanted to leave you on your own. Not because you can’t handle it, not because I don’t think you can be nice. Which I know you can be, by the way so zip it.” He paused to make sure Sherlock was listening. “I was there for you for all these years, all the cases, the parties, the conferences, the family functions,” he chuckled and Sherlock smiled minisculely, “because I’ve always wanted to. I’ve always wanted to be where you are no matter the reason.”

“Even when I’m being punched for being a prat?”

John laughed lightly. “Yes, even when you’re being punched for being a prat.” He kissed Sherlock’s yielding lips. “And by the way, if you absolutely cannot refrain from getting into a fight at the party tomorrow I’ll be there too.” He slipped his arms fully around the lanky detective and pulled him impossibly closer. “I’ll always be in your corner, Sherlock. Smoothing over your harsh words, soothing crying widows and throwing punches if need be.” He kissed him again and added. “Because I want to be.”

Sherlock finally relaxed into John’s body and wrapped his arms around his blogger in earnest. “Still want to go to the party?”

John smiled. “Of course.” He sighed happily and said truthfully, “I’d go anywhere you led, Sherlock.”


	16. Day 16 - Family Traditions

John had his hand on Sherlock’s elbow as they walked into the ballroom that Scotland Yard had reserved for those invited to the Yuletide festivities. The room was decorated in traditional green garlands on the walls with bows and tinsel, mistletoe gracing convenient kissing corners and a very large tree near the stage where a band played. By the time the two men showed up things were in full swing. Couples glided and grinded across the dancefloor, people mingled with punch glasses grasped in socially lubricated fingers, and the band was playing the same old standbys heard at every large scale party.

Sherlock grimaced immediately but John raised himself up to whisper in the detective’s ear, “remember, be nice. You wanted to be here.”

“I can’t believe I deleted all the boring details and so conveniently forgot how rubbish these parties are,” Sherlock said back with disdain.

“Let’s get you a glass of punch and see if that can change. Shall we?” John led him to the bar where a very large punch bowl was being dipped into by a couple bartenders while others mixed cocktails and talked with other guests. John ordered a punch for both of them and held out Sherlock’s while he sipped his own. The nicely spiced and cranberry flavored liquid coated his throat and he hummed appreciatively. “Go on, try it then.” Sherlock sniffed it delicately before taking a small sip. “What do you think?”

Sherlock quirked his lips, eyes still cast on the glass in his hand and said, “not half bad, actually.”

John smiled. “Well, that’s one good thing in tonight’s favor. Let’s see if we can find Lestrade and add a second point in its favor.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as calling Lestrade a point in anyone’s favor.”

“Don’t be a prick,” John said, chuckling. John took Sherlock’s free hand and dragged him through the crowd, scanning for their favorite DI.

They found Lestrade on a balcony have a smoke and Sherlock clicked his tongue at him. “Tsk, tsk, you know those things will kill you.”

Lestrade exhaled through his mouth and shook John’s hand. “Glad to see you boys made it.”

“Happy to be here, Greg.” He raised his glass, “have you tried the punch yet?”

Lestrade pointed to his own sitting on the ledge and said, “working on my third glass. It’s an open bar and I plan on taking full advantage.” He smiled at Sherlock, “can’t say how happy I am to see you hear, Sherlock. Means a lot.”

Sherlock squirmed under Lestrade’s gaze, unused to sentiment from the man. Their relationship was one based on mutual respect and pride that was hidden under several layers of annoyed tolerance and yelling. Rather than expressing his regard in turn Sherlock just asked, “are you sure you’ve only had three drinks, Geoff?”

Lestrade grinned and cuffed him on the shoulder, knocking the detective off guard. “Sod it. You know you know my name.” He leaned in and mock-whispered to John and Sherlock, “I may have had a few shots of whiskey before the punch.”

“There it is,” Sherlock sing-songed. “Take it easy, Detective Inspector. The night’s still early.”

John beamed with Sherlock’s playful teasing and attempts at being nice. He clasped Sherlock’s hand, squeezing comfortingly to convey his approval. The three men stood for a few minutes talking until the chill of the winter air proved too uncomfortable and moved them inside. Once inside they moved to the bar for a fresh round of drinks and were greeted by more Yarders whom Lestrade knew. He introduced his friends to his colleagues and they shared a few minutes of chit-chat.

Sherlock soon grew antsy with the new people and the struggle of keeping his deductions to himself. John saw him tapping his fingers incessantly on his punch glass so John freshened them and then excused them. “Excuse us, gents. I believe Sherlock and I would like to take a tour around the room.” He gestured to the tree, “take a look at the fine tree, maybe steal a dance,” he wiggled his eyebrows at Sherlock and got the blush he was hoping for.

“Course, mate,” Lestrade said, clapping a hand on each of their shoulders. “We’ll see you again before you leave, yeah?”

“Absolutely, would you excuse us,” Sherlock said curtly and glided away with John in tow. When they were a safe distance away John whispered to him, “okay, spill it. What did you deduce?”

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath and then spoke quickly.“The man named Chris is having an affair with his partner, both on the force and in private, Ryan and has been for at least six months but he hasn’t told his wife. Too scared to lose his family life and only seeing his three children on the weekends. The man Lestrade introduced to us as Peter lives with three cats and has a painkiller addiction due to an old injury to his knee he sustained in the line of duty. And Jenny stress bakes but she doesn’t want to ruin her figure so she donates her work-related stress pastries to the shelter a block near her home.” He breathed in deeply in relief and closed his eyes.

John blinked at him and asked him to explain how he knew everything and listened intently as Sherlock spoke while they made their way around the room. He dropped “brilliant”, “so clever” and “fantastic” enough to make Sherlock’s neck blush as red as the punch in his hand. When he was finished they ended their circuit at the foot of the tree. He jerked his head in the tree’s direction and said, “let’s have a looksee. Maybe we can find the pickle.”

He bent at the waist to look into the tree but stopped short when Sherlock asked, “why on earth would there be a pickle hidden in a Christmas tree?”

John straightened and chuckled. “Do you honestly not know about the Christmas pickle?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows knit together. “Should I have?”

John laughed, “it’s tradition!”

“Whose tradition?”

John’s mind went blank. He honestly had no idea how the pickle ornament tradition started. He only knew that his family always did it. It was a game for he and Harry when they were children to get an extra piece of cake or a small present on Christmas morning. John shook his head, “doesn’t matter whose tradition it is-”

“But if you can’t tell me why or how then-”

John talked over him and finished, “it just matters that whoever finds the pickle first gets a treat.”

Sherlock pursed his lips in suspicion. “What kind of treat?”

John shrugged. “My family did some kind of sugary treat or a small present. Fun socks or a book or something like that. But everyone’s family is different. Didn’t your family do that?”

Sherlock shook his head. “My family never went in for frivolous merriment.”

Then John got an idea and smiled. “Tell you what, Sherlock.” He pointed to the tree and said, “if you can find a pickle in that tree in the next thirty minutes we can leave the party then and there and I’ll give you a treat myself.”

Sherlock’s eyes glittered with sudden excitement. “Is that so? And what, pray tell, would this treat be?”

John leaned in, putting his hand on Sherlock’s hip, and whispered into his ear, “if I told you then it wouldn’t be a surprise then. Would it?” He tapped Sherlock’s bum once and said, “happy hunting. I’ll be at the bar. Your time starts now.” 

John walked back to the bar to chat with Lestrade, keeping one eye on Sherlock and the tree. He checked his watch every now and then to keep track of time and all the while Sherlock circled the tree, likely deducing where he would put a pickle if he had hidden it. John looked on in mirth. Seeing Sherlock act like a carefree child that was so unlike his usual self was a sight to see and he relished the opportunity to witness it.

At twenty eight minutes Sherlock came walking back towards John with a victorious grin on his face and hands hidden behind his back. John smiled wryly and asked, “given up?” Sherlock shook his head and brought his hand from behind his back. There, dangling from his perfect fingers was a little, green pickle. John’s burst of laughter prompted Lestrade’s attention.

“What’s so funny?”

John pointed to the ornament in Sherlock’s fingers. “Sherlock’s found the pickle!”

“Fuck me,” Lestrade said, the wind taken from his sails. “Person who finds that gets fifty quid.” He clapped a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, “well done you lucky bastard.”

Sherlock smiled politely at the DI and held it out to him. “Tell you what, Greg. You can have it. John’s already going to be giving me something in exchange for finding it.” He turned a predatory look on John that made his nerves sing and his heart race.

Lestrade was so knackered he didn’t even notice the look on Sherlock’s face nor the fact that Sherlock had called him by his actual name. He didn’t argue he just plucked the ornament from Sherlock’s hand and said enthusiastically, “thanks! You’re really not such a grumpy bugger after all, are you?”

John giggled into his drink and said, “not at the moment. And I believe that is our cue.” He put his glass on the bar and put his hand out for Sherlock to take. “I think it’s time for us to duck out. You’re taking a cab home, yes?”

Lestrade groaned. “Who are you, my mum? Yes, I’m taking a cab.”

He shooed them off and said “get” and they left without another word to anyone else in passing. Sherlock grabbed them a cab and slid into the seat next to John and pressed his side to John’s. He asked John point-blank, “so what’s my reward then, for playing this childish “find the pickle” game?”

John grinned a deliciously filthy grin at him and said, “now we’re going to play the very adult game of “hide the pickle” when we get home.” John laughed at his own joke and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Really, I should have expected such a crass joke.” John continued to laugh at Sherlock’s uninterested demeanor. Eventually the mask of disinterest melted and Sherlock too was laughing.

The next morning as they laid in bed enjoying the quiet Sherlock received a text message from Lestrade.

 

_-Don’t think I don’t remember you calling me by my name, you bastard. You can’t feign ignorance anymore with me, Sherlock. - GL_

_-P.S: Thank for the £50. Happy Christmas. - GL_

 

Sherlock texted back:

 

_-I’m sure I have no idea what you’re on about Graham. - SH_

_-P.S: Happy Christmas_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I found a couple different origins for the story of the pickle ornament tradition. Basically the running theory is that while for a long time people in America thought it came from Germany, Germany has no known history of this tradition. It seems to have been started in the late 1800's by a company called Woolworths in their attempt to market and sell fruit and vegetable ornaments. The traditional that runs in America is that the pickle is the last ornament to be put on the tree, hidden in the branches, and that the children of the household try to find it. Whoever finds it first gets an extra present or a treat of some kind. Not sure if they do this in the UK, but I thought this would be a funny tradition to do. Hope you enjoyed!


	17. Day 17 - Christmas Without You

Sherlock tapped away on his phone, his side pressed to John as he dozed lightly in the late morning. They didn’t often do this, lay in bed late into the day with no plans or expectations. Normally they had work to do; cases to solve, runny noses to diagnose, filthy flats to clean, experiments to run. But blessedly there was nothing but peace to be had. It was the last day of John’s required rest and he could return to work tomorrow. He knew the stitches from his injury would need to be removed in a couple days but for now he was glad to bask in the quiet, warm peace of 221B with his head comfortably nestled in Sherlock’s lap.

He thought over past Decembers and Christmastimes past. He couldn’t remember a time when he was happier with his life. Yes, he and Sherlock had their spats and arguments and he still dashed about with him catching dastardly criminals. True he came home reeking of institutional disinfectant and sick people and to a flat that often smelled or looked worse. But in the end he and Sherlock helped people each in their own way and they were able to work out their disagreements together now. Whether it was through yelling out their frustration only to come together again over a cuppa and a soft apology, or through calm, logical discussion and no hurt feelings. Or, the best way in John’s opinion, they took everything out on each other in an angry, messy tangle of limbs, lips and teeth until they were so exhausted they couldn’t remember what they were mad about in the first place.

There was a comfort in knowing that no matter how bad things would get, and they had gotten pretty precarious in years bygone, that they would have each other. That that would be enough made John’s heart light.

In a sharp turn he remembered the years without Sherlock. That first year without him was the hardest. John had spent it alone in 221B, drunk and in his chair with a cheap CD “Classics for the Violin” playing. He knew Mrs. Hudson would be with her sister in the country and so his wallowing wouldn’t be disturbed. He had cried then. He let the tears that had threatened to flow out every single day since he watched Sherlock fall from the roof of St. Bart’s. He held them in at the funeral. He kept them at bay when he cleaned out a few possessions and took them to his hotel room where he stayed until he found another apartment, too hurt and raw to stay where Sherlock had lived. He refused to cry at his therapist’s office even though she was the only person who would have had no cause to judge him as he poured out his feelings over a man he loved and lost.

But that Christmas eve, as he sat in the dark pretending that Sherlock was just out of sight playing his beloved violin, he wept. He cried until he was sure he cracked a rib through his sobs. He cried until his stomach heaved with the constant, heaving motion of his torso. He cried until there was nothing left in him to give. He left just as dawn was peaking over the street, leaving the subpar music and empty glass behind as the only evidence he had even been there.

After that he closed every feeling he had ever had of Sherlock and locked it away deep in his heart, never to speak of it beyond the scripted “he was the greatest man I ever knew and I miss him”. No one would question, no one would prod, no one else cared. Everyone who did knew that John was irreparably damaged and knew better than to ask how he felt. They all knew.

But then Mary came along and reminded John of what it was like to breathe. She gently pried into his past and she was the first to see him tear up after the funeral when speaking of Sherlock. He still never let anyone see him cry but she understood the depth of his regards for Sherlock, probably assumed even then that he loved him. That Christmas they spent an evening with her friends and playing at the couple in love. They had kissed under mistletoe and drank far too much wine and fell asleep with their party clothes on above the covers and arms wrapped around each other. John had been content, comfortable, but not elated.

Gently so as not to wake Mary, John disentangled himself and went to his laptop, put his headphones on, and pulled up a violin cover of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”. He closed his eyes as he listened and imagined Sherlock as he was at their deplorable excuse for a Christmas party; in his smart suit, smile tugging his lips, fingers dancing over the strings, fairy lights highlighting his hair. A few tears slid out from under his eyelids without permission and he angrily wiped them away. When the song was over he took off his headphones and whispered to the air, “happy Christmas, Sherlock.” He spent the rest of that day pretending to be happy with his girlfriend and pushing away thoughts of the detective who had captured his heart and took it to the grave.

And then he almost lost Sherlock to that disgusting man, Magnussen. Sherlock killed him to save Mary and rid the world of a bad man, thinking the whole while that what John wanted was Mary. That was true in the beginning. When Sherlock first came back he was so angry he had wished that Sherlock would disappear again. The pain was so intense, the betrayal he felt was so raw that it was a physical ache and he felt his body betray him over time. As time went on the old thrill of his racing heart whenever he looked at Sherlock returned and the feelings of fondness crept slowly back into his heart and mind until he could hardly think of anything besides he wanting for the man. He had only stayed with Mary for the child and after she took off, after telling him the child was not his, he felt nothing but relief.

He was finally free of all obligation. And then he made his move to make Sherlock his own. The detective welcomed him with open arms and asked him what took him so long. John had allowed himself to cry then. Sherlock was the first person since he was a child to see him break down and cry. They spoke the apologies they could make before and made promises they had full intentions to keep. They held each other close and worked hard to push the past to where it belonged: behind them and out of mind.

 _This Christmas will be different_ , he thought. He tightened his hold on Sherlock’s legs and nuzzled without agenda against Sherlock’s stomach. He kissed him where Mary’s scar lay, letting his lips linger.

Sherlock’s hand laid itself gently on John’s head and he heard the rich voice of the man he loved break into his thoughts. “What’s troubling you, John?”

He muttered into Sherlock’s stomach, “why would anything be troubling me?”

Sherlock slowly dragged his fingers through John’s just-this-side-of-shaggy hair and said, “you only kiss that particular scar when something is bothering you.” _Observant bastard_ , John grumbled internally. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

John sighed and craned his neck upwards to look at him. “Just thinking of Christmases of the past.” He gulped. “The ones without you.”

Sherlock raised a concerned brow. “Why, when we are laying in bed happy and naked, would you think of something like that?”

John snorted. “I didn’t intend to, love.” He raised himself up to sit beside him, “it just happened.”

Sherlock considered him silently and at length he finally said, “those two years without you were the worst of my life.” John remained silent, unsure of where he was going with his story. “I spent those two years running from country to country, identity to identity, case to case trying to dismantle the legacy of the man who took you away from me.” He fiddled with his phone and averted his eyes. “And then I came back and I had been replaced and that hurt all the more but how could I really blame you? I could hate Mary all I wanted, and believe me I did so the longer I knew her, but it wouldn’t bring you back to me in the way we were.” He sucked in a breath and said, “I know there was more to it than Moriarty’s rumored reappearance that made her run. But I haven’t been able to care all that much about it now because she left me you. And for that, I can honestly thank her.”

John licked his lips and said with an unsteady voice, “promise me something, Sherlock?”

“Anything.”

“No more Christmases without you.” He kissed him deeply, lingering. “Not a single one.”

“I promise.” He held John’s head in his hands and pressed forward, pushing John to lay flush against the mattress. “For as long as I live you will never spend Christmas alone again.”


	18. Day 18 - Mistletoe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is extremely late but here's the next chapter! Hopefully this work will be finished by Christmas in July! Enjoy!

John got up, bright and early in the morning and made himself ready to go back to work. The stitches in the back of his head itched and were still a touch tender when he got into the shower but he ignored it. He had had a lovely couple of days with Sherlock playing nursemaid, even though he didn’t need to. Thanks to their decorating and quiet domesticity, their flat had a happy, homey comfort to it that enveloped him in a newfound appreciation for the upcoming holiday. He was loathed to leave their cocoon of peaceful bliss but Sarah could only handle so many days short staffed and he had a habit of running off at the first call from Sherlock when he was requested.

He should get Sarah something nice to thank her for her patience and her generosity not only as an indulgent employer but as a friend. Even though she wasn’t in the inner circle of what he and Sherlock considered their friends, she was a friendly face, a shoulder to harp on when Sherlock was in one of his moods, and a benefactor that helped them supplement their income and keep John’s doctoring skills sharp.

Careful so as not to tug at his stitches when he combed his hair, John ran through his list of errands and things to do for the day. First he’d drop the post, then eight hours at the clinic, afterwards a trip to Tesco to pick up the milk, then laundry needed doing-

“John,” Sherlock said animatedly as he interrupted John’s internal dialogue. The man strode over to the sink wearing just his pajama pants from the night before, grin on his face. “Lestrade’s got a case for me.”

“Is that so?” John smiled indulgently and kissed Sherlock’s cheek as the detective reached across him to snag his toothbrush. “Must be an interesting one to get you out of bed on this cold morning.”

“Well,” Sherlock said, voice muffled around the froth and brush in his mouth. “Lestrade called and said there was a case of suspected murder by poisoning.”

“Suspected?”

“May or may not have been accidental. He wants me to interview the suspect.”

John pulled his shirt on, buttoning up the front. “Well that’s a treat for you,” he teased. “Not having to bully your way into an interview for once.”

Sherlock scowled at him, the effect losing some of it’s usual seriousness due to foamy lips. He bent himself around John to spit in the sink and rinse his mouth. Without any further discussion he pecked John lightly on the lips before running back out to the bedroom to dress. “I’ll text if I need your assistance.”

“Sure thing, your Majesty,” John chuckled.

The day went by smoothly, for once. John’s day at the clinic was a train of flu sufferers, those wishing for a vaccine to avoid suffering the flu, and one pneumonia patient that was referred to the local A&E. Thankfully, no one sneezed directly on him nor vomited in his office, though one person just narrowly made it to the loo to void their stomach contents loudly. During his brief breaks between patients, John checked his phone and, seeing none of the usual case texts he normally got, he grew concerned.

He punched out a quick text to check on his mad detective. _Case going well, then? Anything interesting? - John_

He didn’t hear anything back from Sherlock until he was on his way back from the shop.

_Interesting for sure. Unfortunate series of events. Slightly depressing. Will explain when you’re home. - SH_

_You okay, love? - John_

_Perfectly. - SH_

_Come home. - SH_

It didn’t take him long to return back to Baker Street. Not knowing the Sherlock’s mental or physical state, he took the steps two at a time. Once in their living room he found Sherlock in his thinking pose on the couch, body relaxed but his face tense. Not wanting the milk to spoil, anticipating Sherlock needing some comfort, he put the milk away and the bag of culinary odds and ends for their cabinets on the table. He’d take care of them later.

He toed off his shoes and shed his jacket before crouching in front of Sherlock. He quietly waited a few moments before kissing the man’s forehead and alerting him to John’s presence. The tension lines in Sherlock’s forehead pinched momentarily before smoothing into something more peaceful. Sherlock’s eyes flickered open and latched onto John’s.

“There you are,” John said with a soft smile. He cupped John’s cheek and nuzzled their noses together. “You okay?”

“I’m alright. Can’t say the same for a Mister Richard Polk.”

“Your client, I suspect?”

Sherlock nodded. Wordlessly he shuffled down the couch to make room for John and John took the invitation willingly. Once seated, Sherlock put his head in John’s lap, wrapping his arms awkwardly around John’s middle. John draped one arm around his shoulder and carded his free hand through Sherlock’s curls, releasing a sigh from the man.

“The only thing he was guilty of was being a horribly misguided, hopeless romantic. Completely innocent.” Sherlock breathed deeply, face pressed to John’s stomach. “He proposed to his girlfriend via home-cooked dinner complete with seasonal flora.”

“That sounds nice.”

“According to him, it was. I saw the dining room myself. He had lit a fire, decorated the room with lights and tinsel, the table had a spread of the traditional fare. Good wine, roast, potatoes and carrots, salad, three types of dessert even. She said yes, apparently.” Continuing his ministrations on Sherlock’s hair, John hummed responsively.

“Hard to resist a home-cooked meal and lovely gestures.” Sherlock nodded against John’s belly. “So what went wrong,” he asked gently.

“Mistletoe.”

John nodded, understanding. “Phoratoxin. Not a nice way to go. How’d it get into the food?”

“He had strung it all over their flat. Hung it over their table, had it in the floral arrangement on their table. Even used a small sprig to garnish their bread pudding with.”

“He knew it was a poisonous plant, didn’t he?”

“He did. But he didn’t think there would be any cross contamination. Had insisted that he researched it and thought that as long as they didn’t ingest it that they would be fine.”

“But something made it into the food,” John finished for him.

“Her intense reaction, resulting from acute phoratoxin poisoning in conjunction with a severe allergic reaction, manifested in swelling, vomiting and a mild seizure. She choked on her vomit due to her airway becoming constricted.”

“Saw the body, then?”

Sherlock nodded. “I talked to Mister Polk and ruled him out almost immediately. He couldn’t understand where he went wrong. How one little thing, a tiny berry, could upset his whole life and kill the woman he loved in a matter of minutes. I saw the body to confirm my suspicions before the toxicity reports came back. It was entirely accidental.” After a small pause. “He loved her.”

John let the silence stretch between them. He worked his fingers in circles over Sherlock’s scalp, letting his other hand draw patterns over his back and shoulder. Sherlock stayed resolutely silent and still, clinging to him. John wracked his brain, trying to figure out what had Sherlock so upset. Death in general didn’t disturb him. In fact, it fascinated him. He was always the one reading out new and exciting gruesome murders and fatal accidents and praising them for their creativity. Whenever they consulted on a case that had a body count Sherlock attacked it with cold clarity and precision, usually unaffected unless there was a death that he was unable to prevent. Even then it was because he was angry with himself or Lestrade or even John for not being fast enough or smart enough.

He was stumped. So instead of prying, he sat with Sherlock in his arms while the detective thought out whatever was rolling around in his big, beautiful brain.

Eventually his stomach rumbled loudly enough to stir Sherlock. “You’re hungry,” he mumbled.

“I am,” John conceded. “But I’m happy to sit here and hold you if you need it. Appetite be damned.”

Sherlock lolled his head up to look at John for the first time since he sat on the couch with a sad smile on his lips. “If I said something like that you’d scold me.”

“I would,” John agreed. “Are you hungry?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Maybe? I don’t know.”

John bent, back stiff from sitting so long, and kissed Sherlock’s forehead. “Then perhaps we should move a bit, make something for supper and then to bed with us? Maybe rub your shoulders a little before sleep?”

More gracefully than John would have managed after such prolonged activity, Sherlock sat up and swiveled on the couch to sit directly next to John. He pulled him close in a hug that John was more than happy to return. “Thank you, John.”

“No thanks needed, love.” He kissed him softly, chastely, before standing and holding out his hand for Sherlock to take. “I think some french toast would hit the spot, don’t you?”

An hour later the two men were fed, had washed the dinner dishes, and ready for bed when they slid between their sheets. John made good on his offer. He straddled the back of Sherlock’s hips and started to massage his detective with some ridiculously expensive oil that Sherlock had a habit of buying. Lavender and rosemary massage oil that he at one time recommended for John’s sore shoulder once upon a time. These days it saw more of Sherlock’s back than John’s shoulder but John didn’t begrudge it. The soothing scents mixed with the relaxing rubbing of massage often calmed Sherlock enough to allow him to sleep when his mind was troubling him. He’d spend every night massaging him, his love and concern for the detective outweighing the discomfort of sometimes over using his shoulder.

His hands roamed over Sherlock’s back and shoulders, working out the knots and kinks and eliciting sighs from the man. His muscles twitched whenever John prodded a particularly tight spot but other than that and the soft sighs, Sherlock was completely still and silent. But unlike the troubled, tense stiffness from before, this silence was calm and relaxed.

John had thought he had fallen asleep and made to move to slide off him and wash his hands before settling down for sleep when Sherlock broke the silence.

“That could be you, some day,” he said softly.

John was confused. Damning the wash-up, he scooped up his vest from earlier that day to wipe his hands and laid down next to Sherlock. “What could be me?”

“You. Dead in the morgue. Because of something I did to accidentally put your life at risk.”

John finally understood why Sherlock had been upset. It was a touchy subject between them, the knowledge that their lifestyle was unpredictable and dangerous. Any case could be their last, any day their last. They’d had their fair share, and then some, of brushes with death. Before, the anger and uncertainty and feeling of helplessness would coil in John’s gut. It would come out in sharp outbursts in Sherlock’s direction, berating him for not taking enough care. But now that he was able to touch, to taste, to confirm life, those panicked moments were soothed with an intimacy so deep and sweet it hurt. He could hold Sherlock close and tell him over and over that he loved him, that he feared for him, to plead for him to be more careful. And Sherlock, he found, had similar fears whenever John was in danger and so he actively participated in their reaffirmations of life whenever death swept over them once more.

“You could be, too,” John said through a tight throat. He didn’t want to think of how he knew what Sherlock would look like dead. He had seen it already.

“I couldn’t bear to see you...to know that it was my fault,” Sherlock choked out.

“Hey,” John said softly. He gathered Sherlock to him, pressing kisses to his face, his hair, his neck. “I trust you with my life, Sherlock. Even if that means I break a hundred bones, or someone tries to poison me nor even if I take a bullet for you,” his fingers drifted to the tiny scar on Sherlock’s torso, “it will never be your fault.”

“I have enemies,” Sherlock argued.

“As do I,” John reminded. “Your enemies are my enemies.” He kissed him soundly. “And unless you decide you’re tired of my antics and kill me yourself, I do recall you saying that poisoning would be the most likely of methods you’d use to off me, then it will never, ever, be your fault.”

Sherlock remained unconvinced. “Without me you’d be safe.”

“And just as dead,” John insisted. “You’re my life. Always have been, always will be.”

Sherlock answered by way of kissing him firmly, insistently, tongue gently taking control. It was a kiss that didn’t have designs of forward movement; only love, emotional need and gratefulness. After several minutes of soothing kisses, Sherlock pulled back and rested his head on John’s shoulder.

“John,” he asked softly.

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Don’t ever try to woo me with mistletoe.”

John snickered and dropped a final kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He hugged him tighter and added, “if I were to try and woo you with a poisonous plant I’d get you a pot of belladonna.”

Sherlock swatted his chest for the joke and they both giggled. “Good night, John.”

“Good night, Sherlock.”


	19. Day 19 - Christmas Songs

John awoke surprised to still have an armful of detective. Granted, it was still early, but his madman of a partner was not usually one for sleep. The emotional content of their discussions the night before had obviously wrung him out and John was loathe to let him wake up alone. But there was nothing for it, he had to work and Sherlock needed his sleep.

So, with a sigh, John heaved himself out of bed to do his morning routine. Freshly showered and squeaky clean John padded back into the bedroom, cursing his lack of foresight to bring his clothes into the warm bathroom with him. He dressed quickly, starting with a pair of thick wool socks and ending with his oatmeal colored, wool jumper. All through his activity Sherlock slept on and John smiled at him with aching fondness. He checked his watch and, seeing he had ten minutes before he needed to rush out the door he decided to forgo his cuppa and slid back into bed beside Sherlock to have a cuddle.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and breathed deeply the sleep sweet scent of his lover, the sweet and herbal scent of the massage oil from the night before, his natural sweat and musk, a tinge of his posh shampoo. Despite him sleeping through John’s morning routine, the jostling of a morning cuddle proved to be something impossible to ignore and Sherlock stirred. He snuffled sleepily into his pillow before turning to blink at John in the morning light.

“When did you get dressed,” Sherlock asked through a yawn.

“While you slept.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

John kissed his forehead. “Cause I thought you needed it. Sleep well?”

Sherlock nodded and burrowed closer, wrapping both arms and legs tightly around his doctor. John smiled, running his fingers through Sherlock’s tousled hair. “I have to leave in a few minutes.” Sherlock mumbled something that John took to mean _I don’t want you to leave_ and hugged him tighter, squeezing his body like a python.

“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight,” John asked, fingers still carding through Sherlock’s hair.

“We have dinner together every night,” Sherlock pointed out. He whined and buried his face into John’s neck and said, “no more talk. Sleep, now.”

John chuckled, “I was thinking Angelo’s. The weather will be mild, and I believe there’s a delightful aubergine parmesan as the special tonight.”

Sherlock said, “we can eat wherever you like if you stay in bed with me.”

“Can’t, love. Someone’s got to earn our tea money.” Not convinced, Sherlock scooted to cover him with more of his body, like a human duvet, making John laugh. “Come, you great limpet! I’ve got to get going and I’d love to take my favorite person to dinner tonight after a long day of coughs and sneezes.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically and rolled off him. “If you insist.”

“Seven? Usual table.”

“Acceptable,” Sherlock said, less heat than he probably intended.

“Perfect,” John said before leaning over to ask, “can I get a kiss before I go?"

“If I refuse does that mean you’ll stay?”

“Nope. But it’ll mean you owe me two extra when I see you tonight.”

“Hmph,” was all he got in reply. Rather than try and rile his sleepy detective any further, John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek and told him he loved him before heading out to just barely make his shift on time.

At four minutes past seven John strode into Angelo’s looking for Sherlock, finding him in their usual table by the window. He slid into his seat after removing his coat and greeted his partner with a smile. “Have yourself a good day, love?”

“It was productive.”

“Do tell, I’d love to hear it. No matter what, it’ll be more interesting than mine, I’d wager.” John opened his menu, eyes flicking between the specials and Sherlock’s face as the detective went into an explanation of his experiment on various household chemicals and their effect on fingernails. “Is that why you had a bag of fingers in our fridge,” John asked, knowing full well the answer.

Sherlock sniffed. “Obviously.”

Angelo himself came to take their orders, ensuring there was a lit candle on their table. He recommended a wine that would pair with their meals, Sherlock’s aubergine parmesan and John’s baked bolognese. A dry chianti that cut through the fattiness of the bolognese and the cheese of the parmesan. He stayed to chat with them for a moment before putting in their orders but eventually left them with a smile and promise of swift delivery of their meals.

Once again left to themselves, John looked across the table, struck dumb once more at the impossibility of his good fortune. He slid his palm across the table to take Sherlock’s hand in his own, no longer hesitant or worried about people staring or talking. His thumb swept across Sherlock’s knuckles and he sat content to look upon the love of his life. His whole world shrunk down to the two of them and he felt at peace.

“They’re playing that horrid Christmas music in here,” Sherlock said, breaking the silence.

“Hmm,” John hummed, not entirely paying attention to their surroundings.

“The music is dreadful. It’s all seasonal and,” he made a gesture with his free hand, “frivolous.”

John snorted. “You don’t like Christmas music, then?”

“Are you surprised?”

“Not particularly. It can get repetitive, not just in theme but in sheer volume of replays.”

Sherlock smiled at him. “Astute,” he said softly.

John leaned across the table, kissing Sherlock’s knuckles and holding his one slim hand in both hands. “Surely you can’t dislike them all. There’s so many to choose from.”

“As you saw, I enjoyed the music from the Nutcracker, I appreciate the movements of Beethoven’s 9th symphony-”

“Ode to Joy, right,” John interrupted.

While Sherlock was usually loathed to be interrupted, he smiled at John’s recognition. “Exactly. But I love the whole thing, not just the happy bit in the middle.”

“There’s other parts?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, John. There’s more than just the one part. I like the Hallelujah Chorus and the piano score for Angels We Have Heard on High. Mycroft was very good at that one as a child.”

“Mycroft played piano?”

They paused their conversation as their dinner approached. When the waiter took his leave Sherlock answered him. “Mycroft did play the piano. He wasn’t as proficient as I was with the violin and so he gave it up.”

“That’s a shame. I’m sure he enjoyed it.” He took a bite of his bolognese and hummed appreciatively. “What else do you like?”

“Well,” Sherlock said before taking a delicate bite of his aubergine. “It’s not exactly Christmas music, but I’ve always been fond of Vivaldi’s four seasons. The winter one in particular is lovely.”

“I don’t believe you’ve played that particular arrangement for me.”

“That’s because to get the full effect you need accompaniment. There’s minor violin pieces, cello pieces, a bit with a harpsichord in the beginning. It’s a lovely piece.”

“Would you show me? I’d love to hear it.”

Sherlock chewed thoughtfully before answering. “If you like. I know Vivaldi is not your normal choice.”

“Who knows, perhaps this may be his day for me.”

They both laughed quietly, taking more bites of food. Sherlock pulled out his phone and looked up an adequate version of Vivaldi’s Winter, putting the sound on low so only they could hear it. Not that it mattered much, the dining room was sparsely populated, but John appreciated Sherlock’s thoughtfulness.

The piece started out with a soft plucking of violin strings and plinking of harpsichords. But it quickly gained pace and the soloist’s violin began pulling manic, fast-paced notes from the violin. The music brought to mind the image of a storm, the wind blowing, an impression of leaves and snowflakes swirling around the listener, desperate to reach its climax. Then it paused, slowing into a movement that was sedate, like a slow moving winter river, reminding the listener of a sedate day under the covers, watching the world go by. After another pause, the third movement started, slow and soft, gradually climbing to another manic pace, dipping into calm and then increasing intensity, rounding on itself over and over, becoming choppy and discordant, at war with itself. One moment, it was quiet, like gently falling snow. Soft and serene. The next it was like a blizzard, whipping everything up in its grasp before ending on an impossibly sweet note, soothing every bit of intense energy from the peace.

John was left speechless. It’s true, he was not usually one for Vivaldi, but this piece reminded him so much of Sherlock that he needed a moment to gather his thoughts. The piece contained everything that was Sherlock; his manic energy in constant combat with his softer self, such different behaviors and yet perfectly woven into one cohesive piece of art.

“How did you like it,” Sherlock asked tentatively.

“Lovely,” John said, breathless. He was still at a loss of words to explain everything he heard, everything he felt. It was so much easier to express his awe in print. “Beautiful. Stunning. Wonderful. It reminds me of you. I can see why you like it.”

Sherlock blushed, looking down at his plate. “You flatter me, John. But thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

John smiled at him. “Thank you for sharing.”

They took a few bites of their food while they let the memory of the music settle between them. The silence was comfortable and John took the opportunity to fully enjoy the delightful interplay of herbs in the bolognese sauce. At length Sherlock asked spoke. “You know, you never told me your favorite Christmas song. What is it?”

John grinned at him. “Can’t deduce it?”

Sherlock dropped his fork and tented his fingers below his mouth, giving John an intense stare. After a moment he said, “ _”All I Want for Christmas”_ by Mariah Carey.”

John nearly choked on his pasta. “No, and I’m amused and surprised that you have Mariah Carey in that big brain of yours but have deleted the fact that we have no king.”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock dismissed. He twisted his lips in thought before answering again. “ _”Frosty the Snowman”_ , then?”

“Give me a little credit. I do have some taste.”

Sherlock exhaled deeply through his nose, unused to not knowing. After a full five minutes of silence and John’s smug grin he clapped his hands together and said loudly, “aha! _“I’ll Be Home for Christmas”_ , a touch sentimental.”

“Wrong again,” John laughed.

Sherlock threw his hands up in the air. “What on earth could it possibly be?”

John delicately put his fork on his plate, clasped his hands and leaned his chin on them on the table. He blinked across to Sherlock twice before answering. " _“Fairytale of New York”_ by The Pogues.”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open in surprise and then curled into a smile. “John Watson, you non traditional bastard.”

John laughed and took a deep sip from his wine. “That’s me, alright.”

The two of them finished their plates over more amicable conversation and poured out the last little drops of wine before Angelo came back to tell them of the dessert specials. Sherlock, surprisingly, had finished his plate and was in a cheerful mood and so ordered for the two of them to share a slice of cheesecake. “Shall I suggest a cherry port to go with that, gentlemen? A tart start but a sweet finish, notes of chocolate as well. Will go beautifully.”

“Why not,” John replied, cheeks already a little warm from their bottle they shared. “We’re taking a cab anyway.”

“Very good, won’t be a moment.” Angelo was gone a few minutes before he returned with a tray laden with a generous slice of cheesecake, two glasses and forks, and a small bottle of port. He opened for them and poured out a taste for them to try before they agreed that it was a fine addition to their dessert. Once Angelo left them, they slowly consumed the cheesecake in savored bites. The small bottle of port was drunk in small sips that stained their lips an inviting shade of red. They fed each other the last two bites of cake before draining the last of the port.

John felt full, warm, and happy after having a delightful meal full of good food, engaging conversation and the sight of a gorgeous man in front of him. Even when Angelo delivered their check, John only had eyes for Sherlock and slipped his card into the billfold without taking his eyes off him.

“You’re certainly happy, tonight,” Sherlock remarked.

“Have I reason to not be?”

Sherlock smiled shyly. His cheeks blushed delicately with the warm of their wine and it made him look more edible than the cheesecake they had just shared. “None. Just stating fact.”

“Yes, I am very happy. I’m always happy to share a meal with you.” A minute later, Angelo returned with their receipt and they donned their coats. John took Sherlock’s hand and asked, “shall we?”

“Yes, home.”

John tugged him out into the cold and told him, “go on, then. Use your superpower and catch us a cab.”

Sherlock grinned broadly at him and stuck out his arm. Like magic, a cab appeared as if from nowhere and they piled in. Sherlock recited their address and they settled in for their short ride. They held hands and stared out their respective windows, silent and content to just be in each other’s company.

And then the radio caught their attention, making them laugh.

When they settled down John sang along with the song. _“Got on the lucky one! Came in 18 to 1! I’ve got a feeling...this year’s for me and you!”_

Then Sherlock joined in, _“So Happy Christmas, I love you baby,”_ earning a giggle from John, _“I can see a better time, when all our dreams come true!”_

John clasped their hands together tighter and then they began tapping their feet in tune with the music. John sang the next line, _“they got cars big as bars, they got rivers of gold! But the wind goes right through you, it’s no place for the old! When you first took my hand on that cold Christmas eve you promised me Broadway was waiting for me! You were handsome-”_

Sherlock broke in, _“you were pretty, queen of New York city!"_

 

Together they sang,

 

_“when the band finished playing they howled out for more!_

_Sinatra was swingin’, all the drunks they were singin’_

_we kissed on the corner then danced through the night!_

_The boys in the NYPD choir were singing ‘Galway Babe’_

_And the bells were ringin’ out for Christmas day!”_

 

Sherlock sang at John, _“you’re a bum, you’re a punk."_

John laughed, _“you’re an old slut on junk, lyin’ there almost dead, on a drip in that bed.”_ He kissed Sherlock’s cheek to let him know he didn’t mean a word of it.

Sherlock understood and sang out passionately, _“you scumbag, you maggot, you cheap, lousy faggot! ‘Happy Christmas’ your arse, I pray god it’s our last!”_

Sherlock returned the kiss, kissing John hard against his lips. The reprise went by without their notice as they kissed. The cabbie tapped on the window, pulling them out of their reverie and back to the song. Laughing, unable to sing straight they sang out the last verse.

Sherlock sang, _“I could have been someone-"_

 _“Well so could anyone,”_ John countered. _“You took my dreams from me, when I first found you.”_

 _“I kept them with me, babe,”_ Sherlock assured, _“and put them with my own. Can’t make it all alone.”_ Sherlock stroked John’s cheek. _“I’ve built my dreams around you.”_

Ignoring the last few lines, John pecked Sherlock’s lips and said, “me too. It’s always you, Sherlock.”

“I know, John. Mine, too.”

“We’re here, boys,” the cabbie told them.

John handed a few bills to him, eyes still on Sherlock as they slid out of their seats. He backed Sherlock against their door and said, “let’s give us something to dream about, yeah?”

“Yes, John.”

As they kissed, John knew for sure that he’d never have another favorite Christmas song. The Pogues had already written the best one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me the dark humor of "The Fairytale of New York". I think it kind of fits with the dark humor these two idiots have, even if they spend half the song insulting each other. Hope you enjoyed! Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	20. Day 20 - All Wrapped Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a big ol' excuse to write some smut. Loosely based on the phrase "wrapped up in you". Enjoy!

The taste of cherry port and music still on his lips John pushed Sherlock up against their door, kissing him deeply. He always loved the way Sherlock tasted. It didn’t matter if they had just eaten or if they had morning breath. He loved when he could taste their combined flavors after sex. He loved when Sherlock had just brushed his teeth and tasted of mint. When he had finished his tea and tasted of honey and caffeine.

He loved all of it.

After some fumbling, John got the door open and guided them both inside. Due to necessity, they broke their kiss as they made their way up the stairs to their room. Once their door closed behind them they stripped themselves of their shoes and jackets, wanting to be rid of them as soon as possible.

Free of their outer garments, they gravitated to each other. Sherlock leaned down to cup John’s face between his hands, drinking deeply from John kisses that made John moan and growl low in his throat. John gripped the taller man’s hips and began to walk them backwards towards their room, fingers digging into the grooves of Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock gasped into his mouth, losing his step and stumbling to land against the wall.

“John Watson, you’ll be the ruin of me,” Sherlock panted.

“Goddamn right, I am,” John agreed, plundering Sherlock’s mouth greedily. Sherlock whined into the kiss, hands flying to John’s shoulders to steady himself. John took advantage of their position and slid his hands around to cup Sherlock’s arse, squeezing it once before trailing one hand down his thigh to bring one of Sherlock’s legs to wrap around his waist. The shifting of their bodies brought their rapidly hardening erections together, drawing a shuddering gasp from them both.

“Fuck,” Sherlock breathed.

“In a moment, love,” John said wryly, nipping his way across Sherlock’s jaw and neckline. Sherlock writhed against him, nails digging into him through the fabric of his shirt.

“ _Jooohn_ ,” he keened, seeking more.

Being the stronger willed man at the moment, John pulled back, taking Sherlock’s hand in his own and tugged him the rest of the way to the bedroom. Once inside he pressed him to the mattress, taking a moment to see him still fully clothed and stretched out in front of him.

“God, look at you,” John said hoarsely. He leaned down, sucking a bruise to Sherlock’s neck, “you’re like a little present, all wrapped for me. Over,” he ground his pelvis into Sherlock to punctuate his words, “and over,” another roll of his hips, “and over again.”

“Just for you, John,” Sherlock moaned, twitching beneath him. “Only for you!”

John growled against Sherlock’s skin. He sat up abruptly and said, “I’m going to unwrap you. Kiss every inch of you.”

“Yes, _please_ ,” he gasped back.

John didn’t need any further encouragement. He slid his palms up Sherlock’s chest slowly, fingertips feeling every inch of the expensive fabric of his shirt. Sherlock’s belly went taut with anticipation, jerking in pleasure when John’s thumbs brushed against his nipples through the fabric. Sherlock bit his lip to bite back a whine and John kissed him, prying it from his lips.

“Don’t hide from me, Sherlock. I want to hear it all,” he said huskily. To prove the point he leant down to suck at one pert nipple through his shirt, making Sherlock cry out and arch his back. At the sound, John smiled and whispered, “that’s better.”

“John...please,” Sherlock panted.

“Shh, I’ve got you. I got what you need,” he whispered against Sherlock’s lips as his fingers toyed with the first button on Sherlock’s shirt.

One by one, the buttons were popped, the skin beneath glowing in the dim light of their room. Using both hands, John pushed aside the sides of the shirt to reveal the entirety of Sherlock’s chest. What had once been a pristine canvas now showed every sign of his life without John; a small knife wound, Mary’s bullet scar, a burn that Sherlock explained was from a rogue soldering iron. But over the course of their relationship John had come to love each and every one of them, laving them with kisses and bruises of his own. Repossessing him, making him his own, loving everything that it took for them to be together. How stupid they were to let it take so long.

John trailed kisses down the center of Sherlock’s chest, running his tongue at the seam of his waistband, feeling Sherlock’s hips twitch beneath him. He could smell his arousal, the bitter, salty scent that screamed his need. He could feel the hardness of his desire beneath his chin. But he promised to kiss every inch of him and that’s what he intended to do.

He trailed back up the left side of Sherlock’s torso, pausing once to lick and blow on Sherlock’s hard nipple, before marking a path across his collarbone to his other nipple. This one he toyed with, sucking it into his mouth until Sherlock’s hands were in his hair, urging him to stop, keep going, do more, anything! Finally, he let go and made his way down Sherlock’s right side, licking the bullet wound. He trailed his tongue across his belly to dip into Sherlock’s navel, sucking on it once before lifting his head and asking, “ready for more?”

“God, yes!”

Chuckling, John worked the buckle of Sherlock’s pants before easing the button and fly open. Before tugging off Sherlock’s pants, John made a vee with his fingers, rubbing Sherlock’s length between his fingers and over the fabric. Sherlock twitched and writhed, his hands clasped on John’s still clothed shoulders. Sherlock’s legs spread wantonly, pleading for him to touch him more. A few seconds of rubbing, ratcheting up Sherlock’s pleasure, and then John was tugging at his trousers to pull them off.

He couldn’t stop the moan of sure, unadulterated need he made when he saw what was beneath them.

There they were, snugly wrapped around Sherlock’s hips, trapping his straining erection, was a pair of shiny silver and black boxer briefs.

Unable to control himself, John reached out a hand, sliding them up Sherlock’s thigh to the fabric, letting it slide up up up until it reached the waistband. His finger hooked underneath to run across Sherlock’s skin. He watched his own hand, licking his lips in hunger. “Those are new,” John said softly, consumed with need.

“Thought you would appreciate them,” Sherlock replied. He helpfully arched his back, rolling his hips so that more of himself was in contact with John’s hand. He gasped softly when his prick brushed against John’s curled fingers.

“You thought correctly,” John told him before diving in to lick a broad stripe up the hard outline of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock gasped sharply, the sound turning into a moan as John sucked on his clothed tip.

“You’re a terrible tease,” Sherlock complained. “And you’re still dressed!”

“Would you like me to remedy that,” John asked, teasing.

“John!”

“Yes, dear,” John chuckled.

He sat up, leaning back to pull his now way-too-hot sweater off, tossing it into a dark corner of their room. His vest followed shortly after, leaving his torso gloriously bare. Sherlock immediately sat up to run his hands across the newly exposed skin, making John hiss in pleasure. John trapped Sherlock’s hands against him, leaning in to steal another frantic kiss before standing briefly to take his trouser and pants off in one go. He climbed back onto the bed, pressing Sherlock back down again, kissing him again and again. His tongue dipped into Sherlock’s mouth, his teeth worried and tugged on his lips, their lips slotted against each other hurriedly.

As they kissed, they ground out a rhythm together. John’s bare cock slid easily along the silky texture of Sherlock’s arousing pants. The slight warmth of the silk coupled with the precome leaking from them both made a friction so intoxicating that John didn’t want to stop. They were both growing desperate and John couldn’t hold back his need much longer.

He pulled back from their kiss and asked Sherlock, “how do you want me? Tell me?”

“Just like this, just like this, you pressing into me, touching me, kissing me,” Sherlock said, panting and gasping out his words.

“God, I need to touch you,” John said, lips ghosting over Sherlock’s.

“Please, please, god John, _please_!”

Without anymore discussion, John stretched out a hand to their nightstand to take the lube out of the drawer. He leaned back just enough to yank down Sherlock’s pants, tearing them off and tossing them aside. Exposed to the air, Sherlock hissed but it was soon soothed by John’s slick hand. John took them both in hand and they both groaned in relief, knowing their climax wasn’t far.

A few firm strokes to coat and tease them both and then John was laid atop Sherlock, letting the detective wrap around him. He thrust against Sherlock, moaning at the slick heat between them. Sherlock rose to meet him, frantically seeking release. They moved together, rhythm faltering as they grew close, hands grasping randomly to thighs, shoulders and buttocks, names breathed into their necks and lips, driving them closer and closer.

Finally, Sherlock cried out John’s name, stiffening and clenching around John briefly before becoming boneless beneath him, his orgasm wrenching everything from him. He whispered to John, “come for me, let it go, do it for me, john!”

“God, Sherlock,” John growled before thrusting once, twice, then coming between them, mixing the evidence of their climaxes together.

Almost immediately, the inactivity made them painfully aware that it was still winter and that winter was, in fact, very cold. John lifted up a fraction, feeling their release begin to get tacky and sticky. Too much was there to just wipe it and call it a day. “Shower,” he asked Sherlock softly, kissing the request into his forehead.

“Give me moment,” Sherlock sighed.

After a minute or two Sherlock was ready to stand and, supporting each other, they stepped into the shower to rinse off. Sufficiently cleaned, they wrapped themselves in their dressing gowns and beat a hasty retreat back to their bed before sliding under the covers to once again warm their bed. They held each other, Sherlock’s head tucked under John’s chin, slowly drifting to sleep. They were a jumble of limbs, unsure of where they each began or ended but they didn’t care.

They were perfectly content to be all wrapped up each other other this night and every other night.


	21. Day 21 - Christmas Movies/Specials

John and Sherlock found themselves on the couch after a long day of boredom for Sherlock and too many patients for John, Sherlock tackling John the second he walked in the door and demanding attention. John was more than happy to acquiesce, eagerly accepting Sherlock’s insistent cuddle.

“Miss me, then,” John teased.

A huff of warm air was all the answer he got. With his face buried in John’s neck as they stretched out together on the couch, Sherlock did not seem inclined to chitchat. Which suited John just fine, he had done far too much small talk during the day and some peace and quiet was a welcome change. Together they laid on their just-this-side-of-too-narrow couch until John’s shoulder started to protest.

His stiff shifting prompted Sherlock to lift his head and ask John, “need to move?”

“Just a small adjustment,” John assured. He gently maneuvered them so that John’s back was resting against the armrest, throw pillow under his head, and Sherlock stretched out on his chest. “Comfortable,” he asked.

“Quite,” Sherlock replied. Then he surprised John by asking, “would you like some telly?”

John smoothed Sherlock’s hair, smiling at the question. “If you would care for some, too.” He spied the remote just out of his reach on the coffee table. “I don’t fancy moving, though, so if you want the remote you’ll have to get it.”

Sherlock grumbled but reached out his impossibly long arm to try and get the remote. His fingertips just barely touched the raised buttons of the remote but it was enough for him to drag it closer so his hand could wrap around it and draw it over to him. John could feel him smile in triumph against his chest as Sherlock switched the telly on. He flipped past the news, a local cooking show, and the home shopping network before a flicker of a familiar movie John prompted him to ask him stop.

“I actually like this one,” he told Sherlock.

“What is this,” Sherlock asked.

“It’s a bit of a romantic film for my usual taste,” John admitted. “But I’ve always enjoyed it. It’s called “Love Actually”. You might find it a bit silly, though. It’s all about love and sentiment and all that rot.”

“I find a lot of things silly, John.” Sherlock dropped the remote to the floor, effectively deciding to keep the channel as it was.

“Well, it’s in the middle of the movie, now. If we’re going to watch this, then you should see it from the beginning.” He pushed against Sherlock’s shoulders, urging him to move. Sherlock pouted, suddenly pressing all his weight into John to prevent him from moving him. It was like moving a cat or dog when they absolutely did not want to be moved.

“You said you didn’t want to move and yet here you are,” he groused, “trying to move. I am comfortable!”

“Up you get and then you can lay right back down for the next one hundred thirty minutes or so.” Ignoring further protests, he shifted Sherlock just enough so he could slip out from between him and the couch and went over to his seldomly browsed stack of DVDs in his old room. Finding the copy of Love Actually an old girlfriend had gifted him, he came back down to drop the disc into their DVD player. “Tea?”

“If you must,” Sherlock replied.

A few short minutes later, John returned back to the couch with two steaming cups. He put them on the coffee table to steep and Sherlock let him lay back down only to drape himself over John once more. “Any other pressing errands to run? Need to get the milk? The post? Mrs. Hudson need her oven cleaned?”

“Shut it, git.” He reached down to the floor to grab their remote and pressed play and the movie began.

“Oh god,” Sherlock grumbled against John’s chest. “Are we going to be hearing this song throughout the whole movie?”

John chuckled, nodding. “Yup. But don’t worry, it’ll grow on you.”

“I doubt it.”

From there Sherlock spouted off an endless supply of deductions and comments.

“She’s cheating on him.”

“He loves his mate’s new wife.”

“THAT MAN LOOKS LIKE YOU? WHY IS HE THRUSTING AGAINST HER LIKE THAT JOHN?”

If John hadn’t seen the movie before and hadn’t been enjoying the weight of Sherlock against him he might’ve been more annoyed. As it stood, he enjoyed watching Sherlock piece together how everyone knew each other and giggling whenever Sherlock got a deduction right.

“I knew it! No one ever comes over to just “borrow old CDS”,” Sherlock said, voice full of disdain.

“Terribly uncreative, isn’t it,” John agreed.

“Does that woman know her boss is married? She has to. I mean, he’s wearing a ring! There’s a picture of his family on his desk! His kids’ paintings are hanging on his wall for god's sake!”

“Some people don’t care about that.” John also found Alan Rickman’s assistant to be particularly awful. Cheating in any context had never sat well with him. He grimaced, pushing those thoughts aside and focusing more on the happier bits of the movie.

During the scene where Aurelia and Jamie dive into the water to try and save his manuscript Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes. “What kind of an idiot doesn’t do copies?”

After the big reveal when Juliet learns that Mark loves her Sherlock’s head shifted against John’s belly, his arms moving to slide under John’s back to hold him tight. Unrequited love is always hard to read and watch in fiction but it’s harder to have lived it. Or think you’ve lived it. John could painfully sympathize with Mark and he had a sneaking suspicious Sherlock thought the same. He cupped Sherlock’s head, cradling his head and letting his fingertips scrape lightly against Sherlock’s scalp as he let his other hand make soothing passes up and down his back. Sherlock tensed up further as he watched the Prime Minister fire Natalie due to a misunderstanding that would have been cleared up immediately had he not been too much of a coward to address it directly.

John elected not to say anything, knowing the movie will get better, happier, ending on a good note for most of the people in the story. He could feel Sherlock scowl when Mia moves in on her boss at the Christmas party. Sherlock shouted at the telly, “in front of his wife!!”

“The harpy,” John muttered in agreement.

As they watch the characters be miserable, Sherlock raised his head for the first time since they settled in and asked him, “how could you possibly like this movie!”

“It’s got it’s redeeming qualities.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Cross my heart,” John promised.

“But he’s cheating on her! That poor woman’s brother won’t let her live her life in peace! People have died! Mark won’t get Juliet in the end because she loves Peter! The Prime Minister fired the woman he loved and shunned her! How?! How is this movie redeemed, pray tell?!”

John smiled at him and said, “I guess you’ll just have to watch to find out.”

Sherlock huffed and dropped his head heavily back down onto John’s chest, clearly disgruntled. He did chuckle at the jeweler’s attempt to stall Alan Rickman’s sneaky Christmas shopping so John counted that as a small win. Though that didn’t stop Sherlock from being just as unhappy with the next scene.

“But she thinks that’s for her,” Sherlock said, voice full of concern when Karen finds the necklace.

“Will you lay still? It’s only halfway over.”

“ONLY?!”

When Colin found his way into the bed of four pretty American girls John smiled and Sherlock tells him to stop smirking and imagining such a juvenile scenario. “Trust me, I don’t fantasize about sleeping with multiple women...anymore.” John laughed and Sherlock slapped his side in retaliation. “You’re more than enough for me, you madman.” He kisses Sherlock’s head and that seems to soothe him slightly.

While they watch, Karen opens what she thinks is a necklace only to find a Joni Mitchell CD and Sherlock practically growled in disgust. As she cries and the camera briefly shows Mia wearing the necklace. Sherlock asked John, “but did he actually sleep with her? Or was it just a sleazy gift?”

John shrugged and said, “we never know.”

Sherlock shifted against him, uncertain and clearly uncomfortable with not knowing. “He probably did it.” He scoffed. “Predictable.”

After a few minutes John tried to console him without giving away the ending. “Hey, Billy Mack made number one on the charts!”

“Impressive,” Sherlock replies dryly.

But after he sees Just Judy kiss John’s look-a-like, Jack, John can feel him smile just a bit against him. John may have felt a small pinprick of moisture on his shirt when Mark confesses, finally, to Juliet that he loves her and assures her that she has not hurt him and that he will get over her and he expects nothing. His smile grew as he watches Jamie jet off to Portugal to ask Aurelia to marry him. He asked John, completely enthralled in the moment, when the Prime Minister runs off to find Natalie, “doesn’t anyone on his staff know her address? The British government is incredibly inept!”

“Bite your tongue,” John chided jokingly. “Your brother may feel his ears burning and turn up.”

“Heaven forbid.”

When Joanna begins to sing, Sherlock seemed to perk up. “Now that, is a talented child.”

“Thought you didn’t like Christmas music.”

“Generally, no. But that kind of vocalization is exceptional for a child her age.”

Then the Prime Minister and Natalie are outed at the nativity play and John smiled, loving the impossibility, the absurdity of the situation. Then Sherlock spoke again, the joy of the scene short lived. “Finally! She confronts him! Does she leave him?”

John shakes his head. “No.”

“He doesn’t deserve her.”

“No,” John agrees. “No he doesn’t.”

The rest of the movie flies by and Sherlock settles against John and he can somehow feel Sherlock grow lighter in mood as he watches everyone’s happy endings unfold. Aurelia says yes, Joanna kisses Sam and tells him she’s coming back, Jack and Judy get together and go on holiday, Colin brings home two very pretty American girls to meet his friend, the Prime Minister and Natalie go public with their love. People greet each other, hugging and kissing and smiling, as the Beach Boys sing the movie to a close.

As the credits roll John gently pressed two fingers under Sherlock’s chin to urge him to look at him. “So, how did you like it? Truthfully, now.”

“I think it’s terrible.” He added quickly, “to make you watch so much pain and have so many ends and possibilities and never know how it really ends.”

“That’s life, though, innit? Never really knowing how it all ends.”

“Maybe.” He then cocked his head and asked John, “do you think that Billy Mack and his manager got together?”

John laughed, the absurd and unexpected question shocking him. “You know, I haven’t the foggiest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My personal headcanon for Billy Mack and his manager is that they have some kind of weirdly dysfunctional but somehow functional open relationship with each other in private while they cavort with women in public. I also, personally think that Harry didn't actually get a chance to sleep with his assistant. 
> 
> If you can't tell, this is one of my favorite movies of all time, let alone favorite Christmas movies. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed it!


	22. Day 22 - Snowed In

When John woke up the next morning it was to Sherlock’s excited voice ringing loudly through the flat.

“John! John, come here! Quickly!”

Used to being called awake by Sherlock for all manner of things, both benign and dire, John rolled out of bed, nearly falling flat on his face in his sleepy haste, and jogged to the living room. He found Sherlock plastered to their window, face and hands pressed to the glass and blocking everything from John’s view.

Not bothering to pull the curtains and look out the other window, John came up behind Sherlock to see what had the detective so excited. “What’s the matter?”

Sherlock took a step to the side and allowed John to witness what he was seeing. “Snow! Thickest we’ve seen in almost five years! Blanketed everything!”

John’s eyes widened to see the aftermath of a heavy and sudden snow storm. He whistled, putting an arm around Sherlock’s waist, seeking his warmth as they looked on. “Did they call for a storm last night?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Freak weather pattern. Totally unpredicted.”

John hummed in understanding, pursing his lips at the sight. Good thing he had done the shopping recently. There was no way they’d be able to leave anytime soon. “Well, I’ll just call the clinic and tell them I’m stuck.”

“Excellent decision,” Sherlock said just before he turned his head to look at John for the first time that morning. He smiled and cocked his head in question and asked, “tea?”

“Please,” John told him and headed back to their room to call in for the day. One small perk of working outside a hospital is that you weren’t expected to come into work “come hell or high water”, especially during storms. Sarah accepted his absence and told him not to worry. She had already decided to close the clinic due to the weather and was just about to call him, anyway. They chitchatted for a couple minutes before hanging up, wishing each other a happy snow day.

By the time John emerged from their room, this time wearing thick wool socks and his dressing gown over his pajamas, Sherlock had finished tea and was cracking eggs into a hot skillet.

“Am I dreaming?”

“Don’t be silly, John,” Sherlock replied, sprinkling salt and pepper over the eggs.

Still looking on with a mixture of fondness and surprise, John said, “you never do the cooking.”

“It’s not as if I’m performing surgery, John. It’s just eggs, don’t be so surprised.” After shuffling the skillet across the cooktop a couple times to redistribute the butter around the eggs he turned and smiled at John. “I do know a few basics. I did manage to fend for myself just fine before you, you know.”

John couldn’t contain the snort of disbelief. “Yeah, and you barely scraped ten stone.”

Sherlock gaped at him. “I’ll have no know my transport was just fine, thank you very much.”

John leveled a lascivious grin at him and said, “I’d say it’s fine alright.”

“Oh stop it, it’s too early for that,” Sherlock said with a wry smile. He turned his back to John to flip their eggs and added, “besides, our eggs would burn and I believe you’re the one who put a moratorium on anymore kitchen fires.”

“Because I think a certain landlady said she’d toss us out on our ears if there was another incident involving the fire brigade and your bunsen burners.”

Not deigning to respond to the very accurate comment Sherlock just said, “would you drop some bread into the toaster? Eggs are almost ready.”

Shaking his head, grinning ear to ear, John walked around the table to grab the bread and start their toast. As he untwisted the plastic bag he turned his head to place a fond kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. He could feel Sherlock’s face contort itself into a smile beneath his lips and he could feel himself swell with happiness. In a few short minutes, two eggs each and two slices of toast each were put on plates and the two men were seated across from each other. Sherlock spooned a generous amount of sugar into his tea while John buttered his bread, the only sounds in the room where the clinking and scraping of silverware.They ate their breakfast in amicable silence, sipping their tea and munching their toast in between bites of egg. 

When they were finished, John took their plates to the sink to wash them. As the water warmed he asked, “got any ideas of how to spend the day trapped in the flat?”

“I was thinking of playing for a little while. Reorganize the mind palace. Maybe take a bath.”

It had been a little while since Sherlock had played for any length of time. The thought of relaxing with a cuppa, reading the paper, and listening to his own private concert from Sherlock was an attractive proposition. Maybe he could get some writing done, write up their last case, maybe kip on the couch while Sherlock reorganized his brilliant mind. “That sounds like a nice afternoon,” John replied honestly. “Would you like another cup of tea before you begin?”

“No, thank you,” Sherlock said before flitting off to the living room to prepare his violin. John poured himself another cup and settled into his chair to read the paper.

He heard Sherlock plucking the strings, tuning them to perfection before he tucks it under his chin to begin his playing. He played for the better part of two hours. After ten minutes of trying to read, John gave up, enraptured in the way Sherlock was playing. His eyes watched as Sherlock’s body sways and twists with the music, soft and gentle during the sweet pieces, jerky and sharp during the fast pieces. John can recognize the Bach piece, the Tchaikovsky, the Mozart. There are others Sherlock plays that he assumes are original compositions and pieces he was sure he’d heard before but couldn't remember the name of the songs themselves or the artist who wrote them. Sherlock smoothly transitioned from piece to piece, giving each its deserved moment of silence before diving into the next song.

By the time he was finished his face was flushed with emotion, exertion, and breathing heavily. He took the time necessary to put his violin away, snapping the case closed, before dropping heavily onto the couch. Wordlessly, John rose to get him a glass of water, knowing he must be parched after such a performance.

“That was lovely, Sherlock,” he tells him, sitting down next to him and offering the glass.

Sherlock took it from him, downing half the glass in one go. He raised the glass in John’s direction and said “thank you.” He put the glass on the table and then leaned his head against John’s shoulder. “It felt good to play.”

John took Sherlock’s hand in his own, feeling the warmth there from their long dance along the strings, and brought it to his lips. “It was a pleasure to listen.”

“I’m tired,” Sherlock admitted, mumbling.

“Want to lay down?”

Sherlock nodded and together they shifted so they were curled up on the couch, chests pressed together, John’s head resting in the crook of Sherlock’s shoulder. In no time, Sherlock had drifted off and John was not far behind him. He didn’t feel an ounce of guilt as he felt himself slide into sleep. The snow allowed them a blissful day in each other’s arms and he knew they would be few and far between. Their lives were hectic, chaotic. Any time spent together was treasured.

John inhaled the scent of Sherlock’s shirt, nuzzling the fabric with his nose and cheek before dropping a kiss to Sherlock’s clothed collarbone. Even if they never left the couch that day, John would find it time well spent.


	23. All I Want for Christmas is You

John spent the next day in his office going over paperwork. The snow had been cleared just enough for business to resume in London but many people were finding it hard to be arsed to leave their homes. He couldn’t blame them, honestly. He’d much rather be home with Sherlock, cuddling on the couch or watching crap telly or chatting with Mrs. Hudson. Instead, he was bored in the office because half their patients for the day called to reschedule their appointments. If he hadn’t spent a snow day in with Sherlock the day before he would have packed it in and called it a day. But he needed to be there for the patients he did have and any walk-ins that may pop up. 

 

The morning was dead. Two patients and a stack of paperwork that was done before lunch. John was bored. 

 

So he did what all slacking employees did whilst the boss wasn’t looking. He surfed the internet until a more pressing matter arose. 

 

He did a quick cursory glance of his and Sherlock’s blogs and found nothing of consequence. No new cases or comments, not that he expected there to be any. Then he checked his email and found it just as empty as his blog’s inbox. Frowning, he logged into Facebook to check up on his small list of friends and see what they had to say about the day after snow day. 

 

John didn’t scroll through Facebook often and he posted even more rarely, but he appreciated the ease with which one could peek in on the lives of others without having to start a conversation. His friends list consisted of Lestrade, his sister, some scattered army and uni mates, and a few of the men he watched football with down at the pub. In total, fifty three “friends” he never kept up with. He looked down at his watch, took a quick scan of the waiting room to be sure no patients were waiting, and then settled in to check out his feed. 

 

There were several family Christmas photos, pictures of children playing in the surprise snow, statuses exclaiming his friends’ surprise over the snow, news updates, and the ever present creepy ads Facebook “casually” slipped into his feed. He liked and commented on statuses and pictures, read a couple articles, and answered a chat bubble from Mike promising to get together with him for a pint soon. 

 

He scrolled down and a video came into view, posted by one of his bar mates, and the title read [“All I Want for Christmas is You (Chatroulette Version)”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=InYvRyX2Fu4). John had heard about Chatroulette and was told it was nothing but guys trying to toss one off on camera in front of a digital audience. Definitely not his type of thing. But the video seemed innocuous and John still had half an hour before his next patient was due. 

 

Curious, he clicked the play button and leaned into the desk with his head perched on his hands to watch.

 

The video started with Mariah Carey’s infamous song with a split screen. The left showed a black screen and the right showed a Christmas scene, complete with a decorated tree and fake snow, and a big wrapped box in the center of the room. When a face popped up on the left, a man wearing an obviously fake blonde wig and very natural beard and “sexy Santa” outfit popped out of the giant present. 

 

The reaction was immediate. Both the unsuspecting man in the video and John burst out laughing. 

 

As John watched, the song rolled on and the Chatroulette partners’ reactions varied from horrified to confused to delighted. To John’s amusement, fair number of them played along, singing along and getting into the spirit of the video. John found himself laughing heartily as the three minute video neared its end, losing all sense of decorum when the “sexy Santa” bent the tree over and straddled it. 

 

When the video ended John sat back, clutching his belly and wiping away tears. 

 

It took him a minute or two to calm himself and when he did he immediately liked the video and commented  _ Oh my god, that was the most ridiculous thing I have ever seen!  _ before clicking the share button. And, for good measure, emailed the link to Sherlock, wanting to spread the joy. 

 

He logged out of Facebook and set himself to getting ready for his next patient. It wouldn’t do for a doctor to be in stitches when trying to look down someone’s throat. He felt his pocket vibrate, most likely a text from Sherlock, but Sarah poked her head into his office to tell him his patient was early and John went ahead without checking. He examined and diagnosed his patient with a common cold, writing out a quick prescription before sending the man on his way. 

 

By the time he settled back in his office, it was a half hour later and John had almost gotten over the video. He pulled his phone out and, just as he expected, there was a text from Sherlock. He opened it, only to start laughing again.

 

_ John, was that video your “subtle” suggestion that we get a “sexy Santa” costume? Cause you don’t need one to get me to sit in your lap. -SH _

 

_ P.S. I will not be donning an elf costume. Just so we’re clear. -SH _

 

God, but did John love that man. 


	24. Chapter 24

Christmas Eve saw John and Sherlock sharing a lazy morning in bed, drinking tea and reading the paper, listening to music, and a slow, sweet, roll in the sheets before deciding to treat themselves to a Christmas dinner. Mrs. Hudson was out visiting her sister and wouldn’t be back until the day after Christmas. They had already told everyone of consequence they wanted to spend their first Christmas together and to not expect them to come around for any celebrations. And since they didn’t feel like cooking they debated the merits of ordering take-away or having to put clothes on and going to dinner. 

 

“We order take-away all the time,” John stated.

 

“We eat out all the time, too,” Sherlock countered.

 

“But this year is special.” John nuzzled his nose into Sherlock’s hair, breathing deeply the scent of a well loved man. “It’s our first Christmas.”

 

“One that would be lovely spent in bed,” Sherlock drawled, rolling atop John, kissing him slowly and lingeringly. “Clothes are boring.” A kiss. “The cold is boring.” Another kiss. “Food is boring.” One more kiss.

 

John chuckled, sliding his fingers into Sherlock’s messy hair. “Food is necessary if you want to continue having a happy Christmas. We all can’t run on lust and caffeine.” He rubbed his nose against Sherlock’s in an Eskimo kiss. “Contrary to what you or my teenaged self might choose to believe.”

 

Sherlock whined half-heartedly, knowing he had lost the fight against food. “What are you interested in,” Sherlock asked, settling himself on John’s chest, pulling up the search app on his phone.

 

“Why don’t we see what’s open,” John suggested.

 

What was open seemed to be a decent Chinese food place, a couple of Italian bistros, a French restaurant, and a place that advertised a shepherd's pie and fish and chips and that was it. After some deliberation the two decided on Chinese take-away but they would pick it up instead of delivering. 

 

Groaning theatrically, Sherlock rolled out of bed more gracefully than he had any right to be after a day of lounging in bed. He laced his fingers together and stretched them high above his head, stretching out his body fully to work the kinks out of his body. John licked his lips unconsciously at the sight, weighing the options of forgoing food for devouring Sherlock again.  _ Will I ever get enough of this man, _ John wondered to himself. God, he hoped not.

 

“Enough staring, John,” Sherlock said, a smirk clear in his voice. “It was your idea for food so while I warm the water call in our orders.”

John snorted, “of course, Your Highness.”

 

“Shrimp and peas, please,” Sherlock called over his shoulder as he walked through the door to the bathroom. “And combo fried rice,” he added from the loo. 

 

John made a noise of acknowledgement and phoned the place to put in their orders, John deciding on pot stickers and orange chicken for himself. Putting the phone down on the nightstand, John did his own stretches, listening to the thrum of the spray from the other room. He rolled his shoulders and neck, working the stiffness out before standing to go join his man in the shower. 

 

Ten minutes later they were both showered and dressed and donning coats to brave the cold and get their dinner. John fussed over their wet hair and made them both wear hats to keep them from getting little icicles in their hair.

 

“John,” Sherlock groused, “it’s not even that cold outside.”

 

“Famous last words before you get sick and then I have to play nursemaid for a week,” John joked, sliding a black knit cap over Sherlock’s damp curls.

 

“You know the whole “going out wet in winter and you’ll get a cold” thing is a myth, right?”

 

“Yes but the fact that a lowered core temperature leads to a lower immune system, thus increasing the chances of preventable things like colds and flus, is very much true.” He shoved a red cap on his own head. “You’re wearing the damn hat.” He grinned up at his unamused partner and rolled up onto his toes to give him a quick peck on the lips. Grumbling slightly, Sherlock strode down the stairs and John followed suit and soon they were out in the quiet night. 

 

John took Sherlock’s gloved hand in his own and felt himself smile broader. He loved this part of their relationship. Their easy companionship was only enhanced by the ability to reach out and casually touch anytime they saw fit. Sherlock squeezed John’s hand once in acceptance, holding John near as they walked. 

 

The walk took fifteen minutes and soon they were enveloped in the smell of Chinese food. The spicy, greasy smell of fried food and soy sauce and chilis. A comforting smell. In no time they had paid and, with John taking charge of their dinner, they headed back to Baker Street. On their way back, from behind them, they heard the sound of  “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”. Turning, they saw an absurd amount of people dressed as Santa riding bikes and coming their way. 

 

The pair stood still, mouths agape at the sheer amount of Santas zipping past them, waving and calling “ho, ho, ho, happy Christmas!” at them. Even when they had turned the corner and were well out of sight, the two men couldn’t believe what they had just seen. Slowly, their gazes met each other and they couldn’t help but snicker. 

 

“Right, that,” John pointed at the long gone Santas, “was worth getting out of bed for.” Sherlock chuckled and agreed, taking John’s hand and tugging him towards home. 


	25. Christmas Morning

John woke on Christmas morning with his face buried in the pillow and Sherlock curled up around him, breathing into the back of his neck. He peeked one eye open to spy the time, just after eight in the morning, and decided it was too early to be awake. He sighed happily, reaching down to grasp Sherlock’s hand and hug it close to his chest. He pressed a sleepy kiss to his knuckles before burrowing back down for a lie in. Sherlock moved against his back, snuggling impossibly closer and snuffling against John’s hair. 

 

They fell back asleep for another hour or so before John’s bladder made itself very known and John had to slip out of bed and take care of it. Sherlock mumbled sleepily, very displeased that his heat source had vacated the bed. 

 

John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, “back in a tick, love.”

 

John saw to his bladder and then brushed his sleep scummy teeth, swallowing down a few mouthfuls of water before joining Sherlock back in bed. He slid in behind Sherlock, swapping their positions in bed, and peered over Sherlock’s shoulder as he scrolled away on his phone.

 

“Anything pressing,” John asked.

 

“Just the usual holiday greetings. Lestrade sends his “happy Christmas” from him and the missus, Molly as well. Mycroft sends his regards. He demands that I call mummy and father sometime today.”

 

John nodded, lips dragging slightly on Sherlock’s bare shoulder. “Would you like to do that before or after breakfast?”

 

Sherlock yawned and ran a hand through his hair before dropping his head onto the pillow. “Before, I think. Some tea would be welcome, though.”

 

“Agreed.” John made no move to move, however. He tightened his grip and buried his nose into Sherlock’s neck, leaving kisses on the skin he found there. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind as he laid there practically purring with the attention. 

 

When it seemed like they would fall asleep again, Sherlock groaned and made his need own for the bathroom known. John released him and decided that they had laid in bed long enough for the time being. He set himself to making tea while Sherlock was in the bathroom and then while he called his parents. 

 

He hummed to himself as he started in on what would be their Christmas breakfast. He did his best, pulling eggs and tomatoes out of the fridge and a pack of “cook frozen” sausage out of the freezer. He dug into their cabinets and came up with a can of beans and put the last of their bread into the toaster. It wasn’t exactly a feast by John’s standards but it was more than Sherlock was used to eating for breakfast and it was reminiscent of John’s childhood Christmas days. 

 

While he stood over the stove making their breakfast John listened to the low drone of Sherlock’s voice talking with his mother. He smiled, stirring the beans, as he heard Sherlock assure his mother that he was quite happy and yes he was certainly going to come round for New Year. A stretch of silence came and John could only assume meant that mummy was on a tangent about something. He marvelled at the similarities between the Holmes sons and their mother, wondering if Sherlock would be just as enthusiastic about his rants when he was his mother’s age. 

 

By the time everything was ready to be plated Sherlock had emerged from their room and shuffled into the kitchen. “I thought you were bringing tea,” Sherlock complained.

 

“I thought you were busy with your mum.”

 

“Never too busy for tea,” Sherlock replied absentmindedly.

 

John chuckled and said, “I’ll remember that the next time we have a case on. Maybe sneak some extra fluids into you.”

 

Sherlock raised his mug to his lips and smiled cheekily, “you sneak enough fluids into me, doctor.”

 

John burst out laughing at that and pushed a loaded plate in Sherlock’s direction on the table. “Eat, you git.”

 

They sat in companionable silence, eating their breakfast. John trailed his foot up Sherlock’s ankle affectionately and felt Sherlock’s foot nudge him playfully in return. When they finished John took their plates and left them in the sink to soak and refilled their mugs. 

 

“Would you like your presents, now,” he asked, taking a swallow of tea.

 

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, I think tradition dictates the exchanging of gifts. I’ll go get yours, then?” 

 

As it turned out, they had each put only a couple of their gifts under their tree. They each had a special one in hiding, waiting for Christmas day to reveal itself. John grinned, endlessly amused at how in sync their thoughts were as he went up to his old room to fetch Sherlock’s special gift. Sherlock retreated to their room and came back a few minutes later, hand in his dressing gown. 

 

“What’ve you got for me,” John asked, smiling. “And where did you hide it?”

 

Sherlock tsked him and said, “this one is for last. And you’re just going to have to deduce where the secret compartment in our room is. I can’t divulge  _ all _ my secrets.”

 

John giggled, shaking his head and said, “you’re on, then. Here,” he placed his small grouping of gifts on Sherlock’s chair, keeping his special one in his own dressing gown, and sat in his own. Sherlock crouched in front of the tree to retrieve his presents for John and deposited them in his lap. Taking turns back and forth, they unwrapped their gifts, smiling and enjoying them immensely. 

 

He purchased a set of test tubes for him, as per his request in his list, and a new pocket magnifier to replace his old one. In the end John had gone back to the mall to get a new scarf for him, deciding on a sleek silver color for when he wanted a little variety in his wardrobe. Lastly, he had found a ridiculously frou-frou jar of raw honey at a health food store that he was sure Sherlock would get much use out of. Sherlock was well pleased and John counted himself accomplished. 

 

For Sherlock’s part, he had gotten John a new angora jumper in a stunning dark blue that John loved immediately. He had also gifted John a new subscription to a monthly medical journal, a sampler of teas, and the socks he had asked for jokingly in his own list. They were the large, wool kind that one only wore at home because they were too bulky to ever wear comfortably with shoes in a charming “ugly sweater” pattern of red and white. He donned them immediately, curling his toes appreciatively in them. 

 

John stood from his own chair and kneeled before Sherlock to kiss him soundly. “Thank you, love. Everything is lovely.”

 

Sherlock kissed back, blushing slightly. “We still have one gift left, each.” 

 

John nodded and said, “that we do.” He rose momentarily and took his last present out of his pocket. They eyed each other, suddenly shy. He knew Sherlock would love the cufflinks, but he wasn’t sure just how big a deal to make of it. It was clear Sherlock was in a similar state and he asked. “Who goes first?”

 

Sherlock reached out for his present and said, “clearly you’re excited but nervous. I’ll spare you the nerves.” He winked and John stuck his tongue out at him. 

 

Sherlock carefully unwrapped the small package and his eyes went wide when he saw that it was a felt covered jeweler’s box in his hands. His eyes flickered between John and the box for a moment before he carefully opened the lid. 

 

“Oh…” he cooed, cupping the box in his hands gently. He brought them close to his face and plucked one out of the box to examine it. “Oh, John, they’re perfect.”

 

John felt his cheeks grow hot, his lips pulled tight with the large smile on his face. “I thought you might like them. They just screamed You.” 

 

Sherlock gently replaced the cufflink, snapping the box closed before rising suddenly to throw his arms around John. John stumbled just a step before he righted them both, arms coming to tightly wind around Sherlock’s middle. Sherlock kissed his neck once saying softly, “thank you, John.”

 

John buried his smile in Sherlock’s shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

 

After a long breath, Sherlock pulled back and reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box with a tiny bow on it. He held it out for John to take, biting his lips, nerves evident in his eyes. 

 

John felt his pulse spike, his heart race. 

 

He knew what came in little boxes. He had bought a little box once. Thought about buying one for Sherlock but didn’t want to press his luck in asking when things were going so well. Gingerly, eyes boring into the small box as it changed from Sherlock’s hands to his. Once in possession of it, John swallowed thickly and opened the box, covering his mouth with his hand to stop a gasp from escaping.

 

Inside, nestled in white satin, was a silver band with a faint textured pattern that reminded John of the veins of leaves. Sherlock plucked the small box from John’s fingers and gazed down at the ring. 

 

“John, you know me. I never thought I would ever want to propose to anyone. I don’t usually give into grand displays of emotion or affection and I had always considered myself married to my work. But,” he looked up, eyes connecting with John’s, “we both know that you’ve been in the forefront of my mind above my work for some time now.” He fingered the band in the box before pulling it out of the satin and snapping the box closed. He lifted John’s left hand, the one that had once held Mary’s ring, and continued. “If you’ll remember when we made our Christmas lists a couple days ago we both said that we wanted each other for Christmas.” John nodded. Sherlock smiled shyly and asked, “John Hamish Watson, will you marry me?”

 

John nodded slowly, throat feeling tight with emotion. Eventually he found his voice. “Yes,” he breathed, lightheaded. “Of course, Sherlock.” 

 

John flexed his hand so it lay flat, fingers spaced so that Sherlock could slide the ring onto his finger. But before he did, Sherlock did something that melted John’s heart even further. He lifted John’s hand to his mouth and kissing the spot where his ring would sit before sliding the ring home.  _ Sealed with a kiss, _ John thought.  _ What a bloody romantic, _ he mused internally. 

 

Regaining his ability to move, John immediately put his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head and pulled him down for a kiss. He kissed his friend, partner, lover,  _ fiance, _ slowly. Deeply. Pouring every single ounce of love and dedication he had in him into the kiss. Sherlock pulled him close, gently pressing their bodies together, molding to each other. 

 

At length, John pulled back to breathe and leaned their foreheads together. He giggled, too giddy and happy to do anything else. He kissed Sherlock once more, briefly before pulling back to say, “happy Christmas, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock murmured softly in return, “happy Christmas, John.”

  
~fin~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only took a year but here it is! Finally finished! I'm so happy to have it up and finished and I hope you all enjoyed this ride. Thanks for sticking it out, I know it sat abandoned for a few months but I hope it was worth the wait to see our boys happy. Merry Christmas y'all!

**Author's Note:**

> I took a little liberty with the design of the cufflinks so don't judge too hard. Stick around for more Christmas fluff and nonsense from our favorite boys! Kudos and comments are always appreciated! Hope you enjoyed!


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